


Ingénue

by untilwefallinlove



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Light Smut, Light plot, M/M, Natasha Romanov & Reader - Freeform, Wanda Maximoff & Reader - Freeform, bisexual reader, light Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2020-04-24 11:19:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19172224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untilwefallinlove/pseuds/untilwefallinlove
Summary: You take a job as a showgirl in an illegal speakeasy owned by two of the most notorious mobsters of New York City in 1921. Caught up in the glamor and mystique, you go spiraling into a world a little more dangerous than you had originally thought.1920s AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello everyone!! this is the second series that i've started, though this one will probably be shorter than what my other is going to be! this one is mostly for fun because i love different time periods (so you'll probs get more AUs in the future lol), so it only has a slight plot, which may become a little more heavy handed as it progresses but for the most part, it's just for fun!
> 
> the first chapter is mostly for set up and we'll get to the more exciting things coming up! pls let me know what you think of the first chapter!!
> 
> come say hi to me on tumblr @ until-we-fall-in-love

**New York City**

**1921**

Pale, afternoon light streams through the rafters above the stage that you stand on. The speakeasy,  _ The Valkyrie,  _ looks far different beneath the sun than it does the moon. There is no smoke drifting around, cloying and foggy, the air is almost clear save for the soft, mellow dust that floats in the golden light. It is quiet, closed for the moment, and won’t open again until dusk when patrons come searching for booze, jazz, and a good time. 

The wood stage creaks beneath your feet and you look out into the sea of wooden tables and chairs, plush booths off in the corners of the room, and the bar in the back. In the daylight, it is far less mysterious, though carries a certain charm to it. It is strange, to be here without the dancing and music and drinking; as if you’ve stepped into another reality, hazy in this soft light.

Natasha takes a seat towards the back, chair scraping, noise echoing in the empty place. And she doesn’t own the place, but she definitely runs it as if she does. She hires all the workers, all the entertainment, oversees all that happens here. You know that she is close with the owners, who are rumored to be mobsters, crooks, or criminals. Perhaps she is, too. You swallow. 

She settles into her chair as if she  _ is  _ the boss, legs spread slightly. She takes out a cigarette, lights it with a sudden spark, let’s it dangle from ruby, red lips lazily. 

You straighten your back, tip up your chin a little. The fact that you’ve managed to schedule an audition with her is an honor in itself; you know Natasha only looks at the best in the city. You know The Valkyrie only ever hires the best in the business. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” She drawls, with a wave of her cigarette, smoke curling slowly into the air. 

You glance to the pianist that sits behind the grand instrument, who has your sheet music you’ve supplied propped in front of his face, the reflection casted in his glasses. He looks up to you and you give a nod before he sets his fingers to the keys and begins the slow, cascading tune of your song. 

It’s sultry and winding; a goodnight sort of song that is full of mystery and enchantment and an achy sort of tender love. And you open your mouth and sing, at first soft and low, a lullaby that comes from your chest. You step forward, claim the stage as your own. 

This is what you love; the music, the performance, the emotions that swell. Whether it be in front of hundreds and a full band under twinkling stars, or just for one, with a piano that echoes in an empty room in broad daylight. You perform as if it’s your first time, as if it’s your last, too. 

You lower your eyes, cast them out to Natasha and share your love with her, your longing, and the soft, simmering desire beneath, as you croon out your song. 

She perks up, straightening, watching you closely. You have her attention and you intend to  _ keep  _ it. 

Instead of easing closer, you turn, show her your back as you peak demurely over your shoulder. Your voice carries all soft and lovely, floating upwards with the dreamy light of a warm afternoon. 

Natasha leans forward, fascinated now. 

You turn back to her slowly, draw her in with voice and eyes, lips parting for a higher note. And you step forward, measured and confident. The piano twinkles, a roll of pretty high notes. 

She smirks now, as if she knows what you’re doing, knows the little spell you have put her under and she suddenly stands. Perhaps to throw you off. You don’t falter, nor back away. And she moves forward, around tables, coming to the very front row. She pulls out another chair, right in front of the stage, as if to intimidate you.

You take it as a test, as a challenge. The end of the song approaches, where it grows slow and sultry, with a touch of longing. And instead of retreating, of creating a fourth wall between you; you shatter it. 

You move, fluid as water, graceful as a cat and sink down to the edge of the stage. Your legs dangle off the edge and you hook one over the other, flash a little skin. She smirks. She’s near close enough to touch and you sing your last, final notes directly to her, holding her eyes for a moment as the piano drifts off. 

She takes a drag of her cigarette, leans forward, and blows the smoke in your face.  

You cough, soft, girlish. Blink wide eyes at her.

“Pretty little thing, aren’t you?” She hums, amused with your reaction. Then, “And you sure know what you’re doing on that stage, huh?” 

“Thank you,” You say in response, sit prim and proper now. 

She studies you, eyes falling over your face, dropping down to the line of your neck, to your shoulders and the rest of your body. You force yourself not to squirm or shy away. Without the music, without the performance, some of your bravado tends to leave. But you exhale quiet and slow, sit tall and pretty for her eyes. 

“Can you dance, babydoll?” She asks, taking another puff of her cigarette. 

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been dancing ballet since I was young and--” 

“Alright. Be here tonight at five  _ sharp  _ for rehearsals with the other girls. We’ll work you into the opening number and the big group number.” She instructs without further preamble, “We rehearse everyday for two hours before the club opens at seven. And you work until the last performer is done, even if you’re no longer in any numbers.” 

You nod, quick, taking this all in, breath leaving in a soft rush. Does this mean that you have a job now--?

“And I want you practicing a solo this week to perform for next. You won’t be highlighting just yet, but I’m sure you’ll get there.” She says in an amused sort of way, eyes falling over you once more. But she pushes on before you can respond, “And  _ don’t  _ sleep with any patrons and stay out of trouble, understand?” 

“Yes, miss.”  

She smirks again, blows another slow, curl of smoke into the air before snuffing the bud out on the table in front of her. “So obedient,” She croons in a way that makes you flush, and she stands once more. 

You glance up to her, peeking up into her face. You hope she can’t see the blush that spreads over your face, but with her keen eyes, you are certain she does. 

“One last thing,” She says, “How well do you keep secrets, babydoll?” 

Your heart kicks up and you  _ know  _ it’s wrong to try and find work in speakeasies, they’re technically illegal, but run so rampant around the city that you’d barely know. Regardless, the way she asks makes you think there is more than the average illegal drink that they serve. Your stomach twists, perhaps in excitement, perhaps in a rush of nerves. What are you getting yourself into? 

But you hold her gaze, “As well as you want me to,” You reply with a flutter of lashes, an innocent look. 

Natasha laughs, a sound that curls around you, warms you. She turns, waving you away; you’re dismissed. “I’ll see you at rehearsal in a few hours.” She glances over her shoulder, eyes glittering, “ _ Don’t  _ be late.” 

You hop down from the stage, standing now. “Thank you!” You call after her, voice echoing, heart soaring with triumph. And you swallow, a little tentative as you glance at the establishment around you. 

Apparently you have a new job at The Valkyrie. 

* * *

When you return for rehearsal a few hours later, you are sure to be early, and Natasha introduces you to the group of girls that you will be performing with. But other than that, you are thrown in head first into both the opening number and another, big group performance. Luckily, you are a quick learner, both in music and dance. By the time rehearsal ends and it is time for The Valkyrie to open, you have a grasp on both performances. 

You’re informed that on weeknights, there are usually only solos, duos, or trios; it is more mellow than the weekends, more for the background of music. But on the weekends, the intent is to be as raunchy and to  _ perform,  _ to draw in all the fellows, to make people dance and drink more. Tonight, a Friday, you’re told will be a good taste of weekend work. 

“Hopefully you’ll fit into the old girl’s costumes, until we get you your own.” Natasha remarks as the girls flood backstage, to the dressing rooms. “Wanda!” She hollers to another girl darting by, “Help the new girl out, will you? Show her around.” 

And the girl, Wanda, twirls around with wide, dark eyes that are strangely bewitching. Unlike most, she still has her hair kept long, falling around her shoulders in loose curls. “Of course,” She responds, and you realize her voice is slightly accented. From where, you are unsure. 

She turns those eyes on you and you feel your heart trip. She’s almost darling looking, except there is a dark, enchanting sort of edge to her that you can’t place. She hooks her arm in yours, though, and smiles. “Stay by me,” She says sweetly, then promises, “I’ll help you.”

And so you do. 

She ushers you to a dressing room that is full of shrieks, loud talking, cigarette smoke, and half-naked girls. Feathers, glitter, and beads flutter and fly through the air as girls try to get ready, shoving and moving around you. 

Wanda’s arm around yours tightens, “Unfortunately, it is  _ always  _ this chaotic. Especially on the weekends.” She informs you, offering a small smile, “But its fun. We grow close quickly.” 

A woman in front of you shucks off her brassiere without preamble and you blink at the sudden nudity, “I can see that.” You agree with her and she dissolves into giggles at the faint blush that warms your cheeks, pulling you deeper into the fray. 

She pulls a costume off of a rack, holds it up to your body, “You should fit into this one. Try it on.” She urges, pushing it into your arms as she reaches for her own costume now, too. Like the others girl, she is perfectly comfortable with shedding clothes, switching into the glitzy, little gold number that you all will wear for the first number. 

You come to discover that the costume, full of fray and beads, is a little snug on you. But Wanda assures, “The men will adore it. Don’t worry.” And she sets you down in a chair near the mirror to show you the way in which they all do their makeup. 

She does your eyeliner, small hand tilting up your chin as she shifts to stand between your legs. You  _ can  _ do it yourself, but you like the way she delicately touches your jaw, you like the hint of friendship you have gotten from her. 

After a moment, she questions, “What brought you to The Valkyrie?” 

You try not to move your eyes as her pencil glides over your eyelid, “I needed a job. I like performing. I figured I’d try it.” You answer, voice softening now that she is so close. 

“You’ve never worked in a speakeasy before?” She presses, shifting to the other eye, “Or anything like it?” And she pulls her hand away to scrutinize over you. 

You shake your head, “No, not really.” Your eyes flicker up to her face, “To be honest, I’m not quite sure what I’ve gotten myself into.” You say with a slight laugh. 

Wanda smirks, once more grabbing your chin and lifting your face to hers, so that she may continue your eyeliner. “You’ll be alright. Just stay out of trouble and keep your mouth shut. Natasha deals with anyone who can’t and you  _ don’t  _ want to be on her bad side.” 

You exhale slow, “I wouldn’t dream of crossing a dame like her.” And then you hesitate, think back to the way Natasha had asked how well you were at keeping secrets-- what more could there be than just the illegal booze? You grow bold enough to ask Wanda in a rush of air, almost wondering if you don’t want to know the answer.

Wanda’s eyes flicker dark at this question, a slight smirk touching her lips, bewitching and almost devilish. It holds mystery, perhaps danger. And  _ God,  _ you shouldn’t be so enraptured by her, by the secrets she promises. 

“You have a lot to learn.” She responds lightly, dropping your jaw to look at you once more, to move on with the rest of your makeup. 

She doesn’t elaborate further and your stomach flutters, but after another moment, you now ask her, “How did you end up here?”

Wanda dusts blush high on your cheeks. “One of the owners, Steve, helped me out of a touch situation.” She informs, “He gave me this job, got me back on my feet.” She lets out a breath, “And I’ve been here since.” 

“That’s awfully kind of him,” You comment lightly, perhaps baiting too, searching for more information. 

“He’s a good man,” She adds, reaching for lipstick, “Despite the line of work he’s in.” And she gently, carefully, glides lipstick over your parted lips. Her thumb catches a smear on your bottom lip, which makes your heart leap lightly. 

When she’s finished with you, she turns you towards the long, stretching mirror that spans the wall of the dressing room. “What line of work is that?” You question, blinking up at her before finding your reflection in the mirror. 

Wanda’s done a swell job with you; you look well and truly like one of the flappers your mama always warns you about when she sees you. Doll-like lips, rosy pink cheeks, sharpened liner to accent your eyes. The skimpy outfit displays the lines of your collar bones, a peak of your chest. The gold makes you look divine, heavenly, with your softly curled hair. 

Wanda’s face appears beside yours, catching your eyes in the mirror, “You really  _ don’t  _ know what you’ve gotten into, do you?” She muses all pretty and smooth. Her fingers brush your pink cheek, other hand settling on your shoulder. 

And naively, you shake your head, fascinated with the glimmer in her eyes. 

“Organized crime, if you want to be technical.” She finally answers, “Mobsters. Gangsters. Crooks and criminals.” 

Your lips part lightly, lashes fluttering; you  _ knew  _ this was illegal work but you hadn’t fully expected  _ anything  _ like that. There’s been rumors but— your heart kicks up, thundering around inside of you. All you knew of mobsters were that of crime and death, horror stories you read about in the papers with losing hands for crossing them and bribing off the law. Untouchable. Corrupted. Dangerous. 

Faintly, you realize, that Wanda had mentioned  _ Steve.  _ Did she mean  _ the  _ Steve Rogers? A mob boss to one of the most infamous gangs in New York? The one the police have been hunting for what felt like years? 

Wanda giggles as she watches your face, amused by your surprise, even your horror. Her eyes gleam pretty and wicked.

“I told you, darling,” She muses, patting your cheek affectionately, “You have  _ a lot  _ to learn.”    


* * *

Despite your better judgement, you keep the job at The Valkyrie. It pays well, keeps your head above water as a single girl living in New York. And it isn’t  _ so  _ bad, despite discovering Natasha carries a pistol on her thigh and that the men that holler and reach for you during performances, are perhaps all criminals. Wanda likes to tease you, calls you  _ angel  _ and  _ darling  _ as she laughs at your adjustment to this lifestyle of jazz and liquor and dancing. 

Natasha is stern but protective; if there’s a fella giving you a hard time or a little too handsy, you need but utter a word before she takes care of them. You’re unsure entirely what it is she does each time, but you appreciate her nonetheless.

And you’ve never met the owners, who  _ are,  _ in fact, two of the most notorious mobsters in the entirety of the city. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. You hear their names tossed around, as if they’re ghosts, tall-tales, more fiction than truth. The only one who seems to know them with any sort of solidness is Natasha, who speaks as if they are old friends, both with irritation and a sort of fondness that only dear friends harbor for one another. 

You’ve been given a solo song in the few, short weeks you’ve worked here, nearing closer and closer to highlighting the weekend evening shows. Natasha’s put you in a vision of white, given you a dreamy and coy little number that is meant to warm up the crowd before some of the bigger acts. You change from your opening number costume, into your solo dress; glittering white, a plunging neckline, and a slit up the side to flash your garter. And as you drape the white, fur shawl around your shoulders, Wanda sidles up to you in the mirror. 

“We’ve got guests tonight,” She says, a little mischief in her eyes. 

You quirk a brow, “You’ll have to be more specific for me, Wanda.” 

“Steve and Bucky are here tonight.” She tells you, adjusting a curl by your cheek, brushing it lightly from your face. 

You whirl around to face her, nerves suddenly erupting inside of you. And she laughs at the look of fear that etches onto your face, too teasing and playful for her own good. You  _ swear  _ sometimes she just likes to watch you squirm.

She hushes your fears, a trace of laughter still in her voice, and lightly adjusts the string of pearls around your neck. “You’ll do just fine, darling.” She promises, and then, “Break a leg.” And pushes you off towards the darkness of backstage. 

* * *

Steve settles into a booth in the corner in between numbers, followed by Bucky and Sam, while patrons applaud and hoot and holler for the girls. Smoke and darkness curl around them, cloak them and shield them. But regardless, many still notice the trio. It is hard not to be noticed at times. Two of New York’s biggest crime bosses with their right hand man, they are known and feared and loved. Everyone has an opinion on them, few are bold enough to voice it to them. 

They crowd the booth; it’s a miracle they all fit and he watches as Sam and Bucky elbow and knee at each other for more room like children. 

Steve lets out a sigh, “Christ, I can’t take you two anywhere.”

“I ain’t even doing anything.” Bucky huffs and Sam is about to protest when Steve cuts them both off with a crisp  _ enough.  _ The pair thankfully quiet. 

They rarely go out to their own establishments for relaxation or pleasure and Steve isn’t about to listen to the two bicker the entire evening. Though, they still have business to attend to, it just isn’t as pressing as usual. They are just there to make sure all is running smoothly, make an appearance, make sure everyone is in line. 

Besides, Bucky and Sam like to watch the girls. 

Not that Steve  _ doesn’t  _ but he just-- he doesn’t like to ogle or--

“ _ Holy shit,  _ I think I’m in love.” Bucky suddenly gasps, argument with Sam long forgotten, eyes fixed towards the stage. 

“Barnes, you say that every time--” But Sam’s words die the moment he also focuses ahead. 

Steve follows their gaze and what he finds on stage is you, bathed in serene light, white dress clinging to curves, draping over you elegantly. The fur shawl around your shoulders slides a little lower; a peak of your shoulder, of the soft line of your neck. Demure. Lovely. Dreamy. 

“I think  _ I’m  _ in love.” Sam mutters as they watch you take the microphone with a graceful, fluttering hand. 

And Steve can hardly blame them. His mouth is hanging open, he knows it. But you’re enamoring, a vision of silk and fur and glitter. Even more so when you open your mouth and sing. 

Bucky genuinely  _ swoons,  _ brows furrowing slightly, as if your voice has touched his very soul. Sam’s eyes go all soft. Steve is struck breathless, speechless, watching in total awe as you sing out to the audience. The number is coy and sweet, draws everyone in, makes them sigh or laugh or smile. He glances around the audience, certain that by the look on all of their faces, they’re incredibly taken by you. 

_ He’s  _ incredibly taken with you. 

And he can tell Bucky and Sam are smitten, too. 

Your song ends too early for Steve, he wants to see more of you. And by the end, Your fur shawl is hanging low, around the dip of your waist, exposing your shoulders and neck ,the plunging cut of your dress. He can’t take his eyes away. The crowd goes up in applause, in hollers and whistles. You bow, smiling prettily, lashes fluttering, before gliding off stage. 

“I gotta know her name.” Bucky says the moment you’re gone. “I gotta meet her.” 

“Where’s Natasha? She could tell us.” Sam suggests and Steve’s eyes finally drift back to the two, as if he’s awaken from a dream or a trance. For once, it seems they’re able to work together. And all over a dame. 

“What could I tell you?” Drawls a voice behind them and they turn, almost cartoonishly, at the same time to see Natasha approaching them. Speak of the devil. She looks good as always, dressed in a swanky black number, cigarette held between red nails. 

“Who that  _ angel  _ was on stage.” Bucky answers and she rolls her eyes. But she  _ does  _ settle herself into Sam’s lap, knowing there was no way they’d be able to slide over and make room for her, too. Casually, she drapes her arm over Sam’s shoulders. 

“I swear you say that about any pretty little thing that walks past you.” She muses dryly, taking a slow drag of her cigarette. 

Bucky swipes it from her fingers, takes a drag as well, lets smoke roll out of his mouth that Steve follows with keen eyes. “Come on, Nat, give me a break.” 

She takes it back with a pointed look. 

“We’re all real taken with her.” Sam then admits, a little smoother, giving Natasha a winning smile. 

Natasha looks over his face, shifts her eyes to Bucky, then finally they land on Steve. 

“All of you?” She prompts him, since he’s been rather quiet. 

Bucky and Sam look at him, too. He swallows. His cheeks and tips of his ears go warm. 

“Well, I mean,” Steve clears his throat, “She  _ was  _ really something. Her voice was gorgeous.” 

“Yeah,  _ of course _ it was  _ her voice  _ that you liked, Stevie,” Bucky mutters under his breath and Steve nudges him sharply in the ribs with his elbow. 

Bucky yelps. Sam snickers. 

Natasha rolls her eyes at the three of them, but she settles back into Sam’s chest, “I can introduce you to her after the show.” 

Bucky gets so excited that he grabs Natasha by the back of the neck, brings her close, and plants a big kiss on her cheek. Steve cracks a slight smile. Then Sam pulls her in for a kiss on the opposite cheek. She makes a show of wiping both off. “Christ, relax,” She mutters, but Steve can tell she’s rather pleased. 

“Just don’t scare her off,” She warns the trio, eyeing them critically, “She’s one of my best girls.” 

“You’ve got nothin’ to worry about, Nat.” He promises, but the wolfish smile that pulls at his lips says otherwise. 

Natasha rolls her eyes, hopes you’re wise enough to know these three as the  _ dogs  _ they really are. 

* * *

After the final act has left the stage, a smattering of applause and whistles for the band, too, you’re finally able to begin to head out. It’s near two in the morning now; many will stay and drink and slow dance to the last members of the band that hang around. But you’re pretty exhausted, ready to strip from your dress, your heels, unpin your hair and collapse into your bed. 

However, Natasha is waiting for you, leaning against the door frame of the dressing room as she gazes at you. You pick your head up, shouldering your purse, “Something the matter, miss?” 

She shakes her head, “Just got some fellas that wanna meet you, babydoll.” She tells you and you swallow. You have a prickling feeling you know who it is and your heart stutters to life and rambles into an unsteady pace. Why would  _ they  _ want to meet  _ you?  _ As if Natasha can read your apprehension, she adds, “You know, if they give you a hard time, I’ll take care of them, too.” 

A shaky laugh escapes you, “Thank you,” You tell her, and for a moment, you think she’s only teasing. Surely, she doesn't mean she’d really go toe to toe with the  _ owners,  _ with  _ mob bosses.  _

But she doesn’t quite laugh and it leads you to believe she’s being  _ serious.  _ You swallow again, nearly gulping. You have to wonder how dangerous Natasha  _ really _ is. And without another word, she leads you out of the dressing room and to a quiet wing of backstage. 

Three men stand in the dim ghost light, dressed smart and with nice, broad shoulders. Your stomach flutters, twisting nervously as you approach. The first thing you realize, faintly, is that their wanted posters do them absolutely  _ no  _ justice. 

They’re all handsome in their own way; Steve with those pretty eyes, Bucky with the sharp jawline, and Sam with a winning, lovely smile. You scold yourself, remind yourself that they are  _ criminals.  _ You pause behind Natasha, nearly hiding behind her. 

“Fellas,” Natasha says, then steps to the side gracefully, leaving you bare to the three of them. And their eyes fall on you in a way that makes your cheeks warm. She introduces you to the three of them. 

“This is Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes, and Steve Rogers.” And then she adds only to you, voice lower, “Say the word and I’ll tell ‘em to scram, okay?” 

“Okay,” You exhale, nodding, before you turn back to them. 

Sam is the first to speak, “You’ve got an amazing voice, babygirl. We were all real impressed with you.” He’s got an easy, open, and warm face. And tentatively, you smile back at him. 

“Thank you, Mr. Wilson.” 

“Nah, call me Sam.” He corrects quickly, smoothly, “Mr. Wilson makes me sound like my old man.”  

And you can’t help the slight, small giggle you give him. His smile only widens and the three are looking at you in a sort of wonder that you’re unsure you deserve. 

“You’re a real vision, doll.” Bucky then says with a disarmingly charming smile; it’s a little roguish, promises a girl all sorts of the best kind of trouble. It makes your blush darken to something fierce. 

And Steve, observant, quiet, finally speaks up, “Alright, lay off her.” He warns the two, “I’m sorry ‘bout these two, sweetheart. We’ll get out of your hair, I’m sure you wanna get home for the night.” He says soft and once more you are taken by surprise in the sincerity of his voice, the gentleness in his features. 

The truth of the matter is that they seem  _ nothing  _ like the mobsters you’ve been warned about. It should be more unnerving than it is. 

“It’s okay,” You murmur, trying to find your confidence, “Who doesn’t like a compliment from time to time?” You try to joke a little, give them a shy smile. 

Bucky nearly melts, and his voice goes all coaxing and warm, “I’ll give ‘em to you all the time, if that’s what you want.” And he almost adds he’d give you  _ anything  _ you want, if only to get you to smile a little more like that. 

Sam rolls his eyes and says to you, “He thinks he’s slick, huh?” 

“You know what, Wilson--” 

You laugh again, bright and more unrestrained, features lighting up in a way that seems to steal all of their breath away. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt so admired before in your whole life, warmth blossoming slow and sweet inside of you. And you’re certain you’re being naive about the three of them, you’re certain they’ve done this with every new girl, but you buy into it for one, fleeting moment. You’re something spectacular.

“There’s no need to fight,” You playfully chastise.

“That’s right, there’s no need to fight, Barnes.” Sam says smugly as he nudges Bucky, smile wide and toothy and wonderful. It’s your turn to admire him now, breath taken straight from your lungs for him. For all three of them.

Bucky parts his lips to argue again, you follow the movement a little too closely, wonder what those lips would feel like—

“Alright, I think we’ve wasted her time enough.” Steve speaks up before he can, jarring you from your thoughts that had begun to unravel in a way that made pink tinge your cheeks, the top of your ears. You hope the boys don’t notice. Steve’s darling, blue eyes are on you, though, as he asks, “You walk home, sweetheart?”

“Yes, sir,” You reply politely, fingers squeezing around the strap of your purse as you peak up at him through your lashes.

Perhaps it’s just the shadowy, dramatic lighting of the ghost light that makes his eyes seem to darken with the tilt of his head, the slight inhale of his breath or perhaps he  _ is _ looking at you with just a little more hunger in his gaze. But as soon as that shadow had passed over his features, it was gone, as if it'd never been there at all. 

“We could give you a ride home.” He suggests gently and then asks, “You every been in an automobile before?” 

Your eyes go wide with the idea, mouth popping open as you look up at him in surprise and wonder and awe. An  _ automobile? _ You’d only ever seen them growling around the city, looking slick and modern and incredible. They really are something incredible. “No,” You answer in a rush of air, “No I can’t say I have.” 

“First time for everything,” Bucky grins, crooked and sinful. 

You  _ want _ to, you realize in a flash. It sounds exciting and terrifying. Perhaps you should be  _ more _ fearful, though; it isn’t wise for you to get into an automobile with three men that you’d only met officially a few moments ago. However, Wanda’s voice comes back to you now.

_ He’s a good man. _

Regardless, you remind yourself that you don’t  _ know _ them. And you look to Natasha, whose been silent, seeking her council. 

You trust her. You know she’d never let you take off with men she thought would harm you in any way. And when she catches your eye, she answers your unspoken question, “You’re safe with them. ” 

Some of the nerves unfurl from inside of you. You look back at the trio, a tentative, mounting smile coming to your lips as you say, “There  _ is _ a first time for everything.” 

“Atta girl,” Bucky praises in a way that makes you practically  _ melt— _

“But no funny business.” Natasha suddenly warns the three, leveling them all with those sharp, intimidating eyes. Perhaps they read more than you can in her expression. But you nearly gulp for them. “Understood?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Steve says, respectful and tall, fishing into his pocket suddenly to pull out a set of keys. 

“We’ll take care of her,” Sam grins, suddenly moving drop his arm around your shoulders. “Catch you later, Nat!” He guides you away from Natasha, from the others, and drops his voice to something intimate for you, eyes twinkling like dark stars, “You’ll love it,” He promises with a smile that guarantees you all sorts of fun and revelry. Your stomach swoops low.  

The night air is cool and brisk on you, but Sam’s body beside yours keeps you warm. Bucky and Steve are close behind, their voices carrying quietly in the darkened city as you exit the club finally. Music spills out behind you, jazz following you with every step, soft and coaxing at this hour. The city streets are filled with party goers now; flappers, finely dressed gentlemen, people stumbling down sidewalks. They shout and sway and sing off-beat about a lost love, infinitely happy and lost in this grand city. There’s something magical about it all, that makes your chest ache with bittersweetness; soft and gleeful, filled with wide-eyed wonder that tapers off into a sweet sort of pain because  _ desperately _ you want to keep this moment  _ forever _ but know it escapes you with every beat of your joyful, longing heart. 

The twinkling lights of tall, reaching buildings open up against the dark sky for you. The wind kicks up your hair as you walk, and when you brush it from your eyes, you finally see a flash of slick, dark blue metal. 

Steve’s automobile gleams beneath the hooked street lights like the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. And you break from Sam, racing for it excitedly. The boys watch you with a fondness you don’t notice. You’ve never seen an automobile this close up before; it’s a convertible, huge and shining, and it’s a marvel that you’re really about to—

Strong arms encircle your waist suddenly, lift you clear off the ground and you  _ squeal _ in surprise before you’re dropped into the backseat of the car. Bucky hops over the side then, too, and settles down right beside you. You laugh, giddy and bright. Bucky grins, settling back as Steve takes the driver’s seat and Sam settles into the passenger seat. 

You give Steve your address just before the engine roars to life. It hums beneath you like a living, breathing beast and you gasp as Steve suddenly tears off down the road. You jolt back, nearly right into Bucky’s arms and chest. He steadies you with a laugh, warning you to be careful as he ducks his head nice and close to you. 

The world is a blur then; it’s just you and their smiles, laughter carrying on the air as wind tears through your hair. Lights speed past your eyes, as if they’re stars that streak past you. You're overflowing, enamored with the kiss of the wind on your face, with the speed that you race through the city. With the three boys you’ve only just met. You’re so suddenly in love with  _ life, _ with all the brilliant, startling world around you _.  _

You rise up, grabbing hold of the back of Steve and Sam’s seats as you ease up onto your knees a little more. You feel the push of gravity taking you back, whisking your dress to press tight to your body. 

Hands grip your waist, strong and broad and sturdy. You glance back to Bucky just as he says, “I’ve got you, doll,” as if he knows exactly it is you want. And he’ll give it to you.

His smile encourages you, the glow of his eyes and tentatively, your rise up taller. The wind grows stronger. But Bucky’s got you and Sam’s looking back at you now, too, with that smile that sends your heart fluttering. You force yourself to ease up a little higher, back tall and shoulders back and proud. Your arm goes to Bucky’s shoulders for support for a moment but then you’re—

Then your arms are thrown out wide, wind pushing at you but Bucky’s got you. Steve floors the car for you, makes the engine growl and you yelp in surprise before laughing. It echoes around the city and Steve’s smile sets you on fire. You’re full of life, full of the sweet, warm rush of adrenaline and wonder and excitement. 

“It really is something!” You say over the wind in your ears. 

“So are you!” Shouts Bucky, completely taken with you, eyes full of awe, smile all goofy and warm. 

You laugh again now, letting your eyes shut, head tipping up to the heavens for a heartbeat, trying to savor this moment. Trying to let it surround and fill you. You want this moment forever, burn it into your heart with a soft, glowing fierceness. 

And then you fall back down into Bucky’s waiting arms, against the back of the seat. He laughs with you, his arm going around your shoulders and his chest is warm and solid against the wind. His eyes twinkle and you watch as he catches Sam’s eyes, the happiness that fills them. The way Steve glances back at them with a smile that’s crooked and boyish. 

He rounds a corner, pulls onto your street and slowly brings the car to a stop in front of your apartment building. You're flushed with adrenaline, hair a mess, smile bright and lovely. “That was incredible,” You gush, eyes sparkling. 

“I’m glad you liked it, sweetheart,” Steve says with a fond sort of smile. 

“Thank you for the ride home,” You add in a rush of air and you lean between the front seats to plant a kiss on Steve’s cheek suddenly. He blinks, lashes fluttering, that charming, sweet smile tugging at his lips before you turn to Sam and do the same. Sam's smile outshines all the moon and stars above your head.

And when you turn back to Bucky, he’s already offering his cheek to you; a little presumptuous, the best kind of arrogant and your laughing lips press a kiss to his cheek, too, as you nearly fall into him. 

When you pull away, Sam gets out of the car for a moment to grab you and lift you right over the side as if you weigh nothing. He sets you onto the street, steadying you. 

“Now get some rest so Nat doesn’t skin us for keeping her best girl out too late.” Sam instructs with a playful smile. 

“Goodnight, doll,” Bucky hums, looking tousled and wonderful in the back seat of that car. 

“Take care of yourself, sweetheart.” Steve says, soft and a little stern. 

“Yes, sir,” You say again, but your smile is cheeky, and Steve’s turns a little crooked. 

Sam gets back into the car, door slamming, “Hopefully we’ll see you again soon,” Sam tells you and you realize the amount that you  _ do _ want to see them again. For being so apprehensive earlier, you’ve really warmed up to them. But it’s hard not to, you suppose, when they all look at you the way they are now. 

“Yes,” You agree, earnest and excited, “Don’t be strangers.”

And you bid them goodnight with flushed, pink cheeks and bright eyes. They watch you until you’re safely tucked away inside, climbing up the stairs to your apartment. And you fall into bed, light hearted and dazed and full of so much joy you feel as if you could simply  _ burst.  _

And you dream of them that night in bright, dazzling, technicolor lights— blurry and dizzying as you dance and swirl around the city with them as if you own every, last corner of it. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get to know Bucky and Steve better in this chapter and try to grasp a little more about what you’ve gotten yourself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! thank you to everyone whose been reading, commenting, and leaving kudos! it really means a lot to me to see any sort of feedback!! 
> 
> this chapter is mostly smut and developing some relationships, but there will probably be more plot in future chapters! thank you for reading!
> 
> come say hi on tumblr @ until-we-fall-in-love

Your life continues on rather normally despite the way you seem to always daydream about the three men you’d met only two or so weeks ago. You and Wanda become close friends, spending all your evenings together backstage or onstage or in rehearsals. On weekends, before performances, you giggle as you sneakily take shots of burning vodka in the dressing room; clothes askew, half on, half off. Neither of you ever get  _ drunk _ but it’s fun and you’re young and maybe more reckless than you should be.

Natasha catches you one Saturday, scolds you with dark eyes, tells you to be  _ good  _ and not to disobey. It makes your cheeks flush, warmth curling inside of you for some odd reason. Wanda pushes back, a little playful, a gleam in her eyes. 

“Careful, Wanda,” Natasha tsks in that sultry way of hers, the warning flashing in her eyes. 

Wanda, for her credit, bites her lip and takes the rest of the scolding with you quietly. And when it’s all over, she bursts into giggles. Your cheeks are flushed from Natasha and the alcohol but you laugh with her now, grabbing onto each other, breathless and electric. 

You come to find that these shenanigans don’t stop with Wanda; she likes trouble. But only the fun kind, she assures you and the wicked glitter in her eye always manages to pull you in. You don’t like displeasing Natasha, though she never seems genuinely upset with the pair of you. In fact, she seems half-amused, and her eyes always trace your rosy cheeks when she reprimands you. You wonder if she can hear the catch in your breath, the stutter in your heart, too. 

But with Wanda, you feel young and girlish and wonderful. You’re both practically joined at the hip, fingers always brushing, or shoulder to shoulder, toeing some invisible line. She takes you dancing sometimes, after the show, presses her body to yours and wraps her small arms around you. Her lips skate over your cheek, warm and smirking. The boys whistle and holler for you both and she teases that they can look, but can’t touch. She’s bewitching and you happily submit to her spell. 

You trust her with things of all matters; deep or fleeting. You admit your infatuation for Steve, Bucky, and Sam to her and she teases you about it mercilessly until you tackle her, laughing all the way. 

And then there is one night when you exit stage after your final performance of the night, change out of your costume, before Wanda nearly runs into you. 

“There’s someone here to see you,” She sings, eyes twinkling. 

“Who is it?” You ask, hoping she won’t toy with you. But her smirk tells you otherwise. 

“Come out and see,” She urges, pulling at your hands, your arms. You are helpless to her, follow her with a huff. 

            “I don’t know why you can’t simply just--”

Your words die as you notice Bucky backstage, in the shadows, just outside of the light from the stage that peeks from between the heavy, red curtains. He has a bouquet of deeply red roses across his chest and when he spots you, his whole face seems to light up.

“Bucky,” You gasp quietly, heart fluttering happily, and before you can stop yourself, your excitement has you rushing towards him and straight into his arms. 

He catches you at the last moment, air leaving his lungs at the force you collide with but then his arms, strong and broad, are around you, banding around your waist and keeping you close. 

“Hi ya, doll.” He rumbles, warm and infinitely happy to see you. Your arms are around his neck, near hanging off him as he holds you up, “Miss me?” He asks and you find a blush warming your cheeks quickly. 

You pull back slightly, realizing that this perhaps wasn’t the proper greeting for a man you’d only met once before, but his arms don’t fully let you go, and keep you close in his embrace. As if he refuses to let you be embarrassed for your zealous greeting of him. You blink up at him, at the flowers in his free arm. 

“The roses are from Stevie and Sam, too.” He then explains, passing them from his arms to yours. The petals brush your cheeks, the end of your nose and they’re fragrant and soft. “They’re real sore over not being able to come tonight.” 

Your lips pop open in slight surprise; for the flowers, for the idea that the three of them had even thought of you, wanted to be here tonight. It makes your heart quicken. You shake your head, “You didn’t need to do that,” You insist, “It’s too sweet.” 

“Nonsense,” Bucky replies, hand still at your waist, smooth and smelling of expensive cologne, something warm and musky and intoxicating. You sink closer to him. “It’s nothing.” 

“Thank you,” You tell him sweetly, “And tell Steve and Sam that, too.” 

“I will,” Bucky promises, hand falling to the small of your back, head dipping close to yours, “Now, what do ya say we get out of here and go dancing?” 

You light up, outside fluttering warm and smile brightening your features in the darkness. “That sounds swell, Bucky.” 

That’s all it takes for you to find yourself tucked under his arm, against his side, leading you out into the streets of New York as if he owns it, promising you a perfect night out on the town. 

* * *

He takes you to another speakeasy and you think, with the way the bouncer regards him with a familiar smile and handshake, that he owns this one, too. Your suspicions are confirmed when the bartender asks him, “What can I get ya, boss?” 

“Whad’ya drink, babydoll?” Bucky then asks you, a protective hand on your waist, keeping you close in the crowded room. You almost feel shy with the boisterous people around you, screaming and shouting and swaying. Their bare arms and shoulders, scandalous dips in necklines, pearls and silk glitter before your eyes. The room is thick with coiling perfume, smoke, the sticky sweet of alcohol on everyone’s lips. It’s sin, it’s wild and makes your head fog. Couples on velvet couches drape over each other, mouths moving, and you  _ flush,  _ turning your gaze from them. You’re usually on the stage, not in the crowds, untouched and perfectly unaware. Besides, The Valkyrie isn’t as...hedonistic as this. 

Bodies move on the dance floor, twining and grinding, gripping and pushing against one another lewdly. You curl closer to Bucky, find comfort in his broad frame against yours. Your lashes flutter up to him; you don’t really know what you drink besides the few, shots of Vodka that you and Wanda sneak some nights. 

“Surprise me!” You chirp at Bucky and he grins, picking his head back up to the bartender. 

“Gimmie a Mary Pickford and an Old Fashioned,” He says and in no time, a sleek, slim glass of something citrus pink with a bright cherry is given to Bucky, followed by the small glass with what you assume is brandy or whiskey, orange peel curling the side, and a round ice cube rocking in the center. 

Bucky takes both drinks in hand, tells you to hang onto him, and begins weaving through the crowds. Your small hand latches onto the back of his shirt and you stumble along behind him. He guides you into a plush, deeply blue booth in the corner of the speakeasy. A table rests in front and you slide in beside him, eagerly pressing close to him. 

He plucks the cherry in your drink up with nimble fingers, “Open,” He says with a smile that promises trouble, devilish and fun, as he holds the cherry up to your mouth. 

You blink up at him, unsure at first, but slowly let your lips part. He drops the cherry onto your tongue, let’s you bite down tentatively. Red burst of fruit erupts, juicy and sweet, and he pulls the stem of the cherry from you, tosses it onto the table. You chew, the bright and sugary flavor on your tongue before you swallow. 

In the next moment, he’s holding the glass of your drink, pink and filled to the brim, up to your lips. “Now drink, bunny,” He says and you welcome the rim of the glass to your mouth as his other hand sinks into your hair at the back of your neck, guiding and authoritative. Bucky tips the glass slightly, let’s you drink pineapple nectar, sweet and citrus, form his hands. 

It burns down your throat with your inexperience, though, the bite of alcohol you taste around the sugar, and he only allows you a few sips before setting it back down on the table. 

“It’s got a kick!” You tell him, lips puckering slightly and he laughs richly, letting his hand fall from the nape of your neck, to drape his arm around your shoulders.  

“You’ve never had a Mary Pickford before?” He asks, eyes glittering in the dark. 

You shake your head, warmth spreading through you just from those first few sips, “I’ve only ever really had a little vodka with Wanda backstage.” 

He whistles low, “You’re a  _ baby,”  _ He coos, half teasing, in a way that makes heat burn through your cheeks, “Well, stick with me, and I’ll teach ya more.” He then promises, finger toying with a strand of your hair. 

Your heart stutters and jump starts and you find you really,  _ really  _ want to learn from him.

 

The night edges onward with the pair of you squeezed into this booth, drinking, talking, and laughing. He wants to know all about you, uncovers what you love and hate, where you grew up, all that you’ll give him, he takes. And he regals you with stories of him and Steve as kids, the way they met Sam and Natasha. He tells you that  _ some things are secret, _ asks how well you keep them with a wicked gleam in his eyes that you’re drunk on, fuzzy and yearning.

Somehow, you end up in his lap, straddling his waist with your small hands on his shoulders. The edge of the table digs into your back but you don’t care, too swept away in Bucky’s gaze on you. The alcohol has made you a little bolder, otherwise your inexperience with men would make you nervous. You’re not chaste, but the majority of your experiences with men or women have been fumbling and quick. No one’s had the skill or confidence as Bucky does, whose hands seem to know exactly how to touch, to brush, to grasp. 

His hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. You look at him with wide eyes, small hands on the curve of his broad shoulders. 

“I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since I met you,” He admits, eyes blue haze and warm, his thumb passing another tender swipe over your lip. 

“You tell that to every pretty girl?” You ask in response, half-serious, half-teasing with a tilt of your head. 

Bucky smirks a little, shakes his head, “No,” And his thumb presses lightly against the seam of your lips, so you part them, let your tongue brush delicately against the pad of his thumb. “Just you,” He murmurs, enraptured, eyes darkening. 

You wrap your lips around his thumb, tentative; it seems strange and foreign but Bucky’s gripping you tighter, looking at you as if he wants to devour you whole. A bloom of arousal, low and soft, unfurls inside of you. Your hips squirm over his, involuntary, and you can feel a flush creep over you, a little embarrassed with his thumb in your mouth and suddenly desperate need for relief. 

Bucky only pulls his thumb from your lips though, slick and warm before covering your mouth with his and for a moment, you’re frozen, heart stopping. But then his broad palm grips your waist, rolls your hips forward slightly and you  _ whine  _ against his lips and come alive beneath his hands. 

He half groans against your lips at your eagerness, small hands tightening in his shirt, delving into his hair. You can taste the bite of the alcohol he’d been drinking, the sudden splash of orange. It’s intoxicating, it burns you. 

He repositions you slightly, thigh slipping between your legs, brushing at your core where you’re sensitive, forcing out a trembling breath. His lips part from yours, skate along your cheek, down to your jaw. “Pretty girl,” Bucky murmurs, teeth skimming, fingers digging into your hip to rock you onto his thigh, which pulls a shaky moan from you.

Your cheeks flush in embarrassment, but you can feel the sharp cut of Bucky’s smile, “Feel good, baby?” He coos, evidently unworried by the noise, and repeating the action, giving you friction and trying to pull it from you again. 

“Yeah,” You gasp before you can stop yourself, tilting your head to give him more room there. His lips seal on your neck, warm and overwhelming. You should care more about the way your dress is hitched around your hips or that someone could see you, but Bucky doesn’t allow you to shy away, gripping you tight and encouraging you. 

Besides it’s dark and your face is hidden in his neck, soft lips pressing messy kisses there, smearing any remaining lipstick. It’s  _ dirty _ , a little lewd, but it feels  _ good.  _ It’s freeing to let go in his arms, rock against him as the heat builds. You chase release, keening slightly as you near it, dizzy and breathless. 

“You gonna come for me?” Bucky purrs then, as if he can sense it, grabbing your hip harder, “Just like this?”  

You mewl, soft and desperate and a little pitiful, head dipping into a slight nod against his shoulder. He doesn’t let you slow or stop, not until you fall apart for him, shaking and letting out a quiet, broken, little cry into his neck. 

He strokes you, hand lovingly caressing up your sides and back. “Good girl,” he praises, refuses to let you be embarrassed, even if you can’t quite leave the comfort of his neck. You squirm, aftershocks rolling through you, clinging to him as he soothes you. 

“So lovely,” He continues, pressing sweet, wet kisses against your jaw and cheek and neck. You feel as if you’re glowing, warm and sated and pressed into his chest.

But after a moment, you pick your head up and blink, eyes round and glittering in the darkness. “What about you?” You ask, almost shyly, ducking your head. You’re hovering in some hazy, sweet fog of bliss but you want him to feel the same, deeply satisfied. You want to please him, you find. 

“Well, aren’t you the sweetest?” Bucky hums, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear, pressing his lips to the corner of your jaw. But he shakes his head slightly, “You don’t need to worry about me tonight, though, okay? This was for you, it’s all about you.” 

You pout slightly, bottom lip pushing out, “Are you sure?” 

Bucky nips lightly at your jaw, a quick pinch, “Don’t tempt me, babydoll.” He says lowly and it has you arching into him all over again. But he doesn’t let it simmer and expand again, he pulls you away from him slightly, sleepy-eyed and burning for him. 

“C’mon,” He tells you, “I told you we’d dance.” 

And dance you do; he holds you close, grabs your hips and rocks you against him, just the way Wanda does. Except where her body is soft and plush, his is firm and commanding. He whispers pretty words in your ear, calls you  _ intoxicating  _ and  _ stunning  _ and  _ extraordinary.  _ You preen and dance for him, wrapping your small, arms around his neck and swaying to the jazz that croons throughout the whole establishment. And he’s perfect, so taken by you that you feel as if you are as rare and precious as the gems in the rings that adorned his fingers. You are young and beautiful and full of life, drawing eyes and Bucky proudly displays you. 

Just like Wanda; they can look but can’t touch. It sends your heart soaring. 

But at some point, the night has to come to an end and Bucky takes you home, walking you all the way up to your door. He kisses you sweet and chaste, but a subtle, possessive hand holds your chin to tip your face up to his. 

“I’d love to see you again real soon, doll.” He tells you with sincerity, with earnest. 

“I’d love that too, Bucky.” 

And he kisses you again, slow and gentle, making you sway on unsteady feet. You cling to his shirt again, half think of inviting him in. But he pulls away from you, smiling, blissfully happy with just your kiss. 

“Goodnight, baby. Dream of me?” He asks and you can’t help the laugh that spills from you the way the starlight spills onto his face, brightening his eyes and the crooked smile. 

“Of course,” You sigh, moonstruck, leaning back against the door to your apartment building as you watch him retreat back to his car, distancing himself from you slowly. “Goodnight, Bucky.” You say before slipping inside, heading up to your apartment, and dropping into bed. Your heart blooms with warmth the same way alcohol spreads gooey and molten inside of your chest, mind flickering back to Bucky, whose smile lingers in your thoughts until darkness cradles you, rocks you into sleep. 

* * *

Steve visits you next week, stops by the Valkyrie despite having other business to attend to that evening. He tells you he can't stay, unfortunately, looks at you with longing, blue eyes. 

However, he surprises you, shoving his hands into his pockets, he begins, “Since I know you work in the evenings,” He shifts slightly, perhaps nervous, “Can I take you to breakfast tomorrow morning?” 

You blink up at him, think back to Bucky. Surely, Steve knows that Bucky took you out; surely it wouldn’t be betraying Bucky if you agreed. Your heart picks up as you find Steve’s face. It’s earnest and open, makes you blush for some reason. You  _ want  _ to go out with him, too, you realize with a slight start. As much as your mind had been consumed by Bucky, it had always wandered back to Steve, even Sam, too. 

“Sure, Steve,” You begin, nibble at your bottom lip, feel his eyes follow the movement and hope to God your face isn’t as red as it feels, “I’d really like that.” You tell him honestly. 

And he grants you a smile, winsome and darling and brightening his entire face that seems so serious most of the time.

“How’s nine in the morning sound?” He asks and you nod, certain you’d agree to about anything for him. 

Before he can leave, you speak up, let the words bubble out before you can stop yourself, “The roses look really nice in my bedroom.” You grow bashful, “I really love them.”  

He pauses, tilts his head before realization dawns over his features and his smile turns lopsided. “Oh, I’m glad you liked ‘em, honey.” He responds, growing warm with your praise. And then he quirks a brow, “Buck said you guys had fun the other night,” He mentions, half-inquiring. 

“Oh,” You exhale, glad to know that Steve is aware Bucky had taken you out, but suddenly nervous that he knows what Bucky had done with you-- would Bucky have told him?

“It was a lot of fun,” You add, blush warming your cheeks. 

“Good,” Steve says, nodding, “That’s good.” And then he glances at his watch, checks the time, and lets out a breath. “Well, I have to get going. But I’ll see you tomorrow?” He asks you, hopeful, pretty eyes finding yours. 

“Yes,” You agree, “Bright and early.” And you flash him a smile. 

Surprisingly, he leans forward, brushes a kiss to your cheek, and agrees, “Bright and early, babydoll.” Before he leaves you there, with your fingers ghosting over where his soft, warm lips had been just moments ago.

* * *

You wake to the sound of your alarm ringing, blindly fumbling to shut it off. Morning light fills your room, spills onto your bed and bare shoulders. You slowly open your eyes, rub at them before stretching out in your bed. You sigh; you have an hour to get ready before Steve is supposed to pick you up.

So you set on getting ready, picking out a pale, casual, pink dress that has pretty, swirling beads in some areas. It bares your shoulders and collar bones, allows that peak of skin. Your makeup is soft and subtle compared to the dramatics of being on stage; satin pink rouge and a swipe of dolly pink lipstick. A tan clutch, tan kitten heels to match. 

And true to his word, Steve is right on time at nine in the morning. You watch as he pulls up in his automobile in the bright, soft light of the morning. You rush out the door, stepping out before he even reaches the door to your apartment building. When he sees you, his mouth parts slightly, pink lips opening. 

“Hi, Stevie,” You say and he blinks. 

“Morning, sweetheart.” He responds, looking you over, and then he says with a little too much reverence, “You look lovely.” 

Your think your cheeks turn as pink as your dress, “Thank you,” You respond, soft and stepping up to him. 

He helps you into his automobile and off you go, wind tousling your hair and making your eyes glow with wonder as the city blurs by your vision in the morning sun.

Steve takes you to what seems to be a hotel, towering high into the robin’s egg blue sky, dreamy, white clouds scattered in it’s background. But he goes right past the front desk and to the elevators, where he pulls open the iron cage, allows you in, before shutting it behind him. He presses the button for the very  _ top  _ floor, number fifteen, and your curiosity begins to stir. 

But before you can gather the courage to ask any questions, the elevator is slowing to a stop and Steve is ushering you back out. You step out onto a rooftop restaurant, with tall, clear windows surrounding the entire place and giving you a brilliant view of the sparkling city below you. 

Before you can stop yourself, you rush forward, towards the grand windows and peer down below. It’s dizzying, it’s astonishing, takes the breath straight from your lungs. From up this high, the world seems vividly colorful and tiny. Green grass sparks bright compared to the rough, dark asphalt. Gleaming automobiles of yellow, red, and blue streak across the streets. The blue sky opens up wide before your very eyes, clouds rolling past leisurely, the sun casting all in a glow. 

Steve approaches your side, watching you with fondness and tenderness you aren’t prepared to find, but welcome eagerly. 

“It’s incredible,” You breathe, eyes flying over the skyline of New York, open and massive for you. 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees softly, eyes fixed on you, “It is.”

But you aren’t quite sure he’s talking about the view anymore.

 

You take your seat beside an open window and instead of Steve sitting across from you, he takes the seat beside you, casually drapes his arm around the back of your chair. You sit prim and proper beside him, but can’t help the way you lean towards him as you talk. 

And like Bucky, he wants to know everything about you. Willingly, eagerly, you give him all that you gave Bucky, too. You relish in Steve’s attention in a similar way you did with Bucky. He’s not as seductively dark as Bucky, but he’s got a commanding streak, a rougher edge of someone who's never backed down before. It’s as intoxicating as Bucky in an entirely different way.

Steve orders mimosas without the waiter batting an eye and you have to wonder what sort of connections he has here, too. What kind of men and business you’ve entangled yourself with. The slim, tall glasses of bright orange mimosas are placed in front of you, strawberry hanging off the rim, and your sudden questions are quickly quieted. 

You pluck your strawberry off the rim, bite into the sweet fruit that gushes against your tongue and lips. Steve smiles as he watches you, swiping his thumb at the corner of your lips, catching some of it’s sugar on his thumb. 

And he swipes his thumb clean of it, catching your eyes as your heart flutters. 

As if to get back at him, you swipe his own strawberry, playful and giggling as you quickly bite into that one, too. Steve’s eyes dance with amusement, even as his broad palm comes down onto the back of your neck. He squeezes lightly, “Think your funny, huh?” He asks, voice gone low but a corner of his lips is lifted into a smile.

“I think so,” You say around the strawberry, cheek full with the fruit and it makes you both laugh, deep and full and warm. Steve’s hand slides to your back, sometimes to your shoulder as you both sit too close, laughing over mimosas at nine in the morning. 

You feel on top of the world, sitting pretty beside one of the most powerful men in New York City.

The thought strikes you deeply and the slow realization of who you’ve been so infatuated with; Bucky, Steve, Sam, even Natasha, come rushing forward. They’re  _ dangerous,  _ they’re powerful. You begin to become aware of the sly glances cast your way, the way people seem to be looking at you. And Steve’s been taking it all in stride, sitting close, possessive hand on the back of your neck.  

It should make you nervous. You try and convince yourself you’re nervous, but you aren’t. It’s a rush, like being on the stage every night, intoxicating and fun. And you’re smitten, caught in the shock of blue from Steve’s eyes. 

You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, but you reach for it anyways, eager and seeking. 

Steve ends up ordering for you when you don’t know what to get, too many options; all expensive, things you’ve barely heard of. When the steaming plates of food are placed in front of you, you’re met with something that’s perfectly scrambled eggs, salmon, rustic bread, spring greens. It’s rich and savory and you half-groan on the first bite. 

“That good, princess?” He asks around a smile and you nod enthusiastically, which makes his eyes brighten. 

As if he’s happy just because you are. As if you’ve reminded him to savor something as simple as food, looking at it through new eyes, young and naive and excited to try everything. 

You both eat and talk and lounge in the morning light, enjoying all that he’d gotten. The cinnamon, pecan rolls that are decadent and dripping and sticky-sweet. They have you licking your fingers clean, Steve’s eyes darkening a fraction, and your own cheeks sent blazing.

Steve pays for everything, won’t even let you look at the bill. It’s overly kind because you know it was all expensive and he ordered plenty of food for the two of you, but he acts as if it’s nothing. Maybe to him, it isn’t. Once more, your curiosity for him, for what exactly he does grows. 

He takes you back home after, walks you up to the door of your apartment building and this time, before he can say any sort of goodbye, you peak up at him and ask, “Would you like to come in for a bit? For coffee or tea?”  You ask, flicker wide eyes up to his face.

He looks a little surprised, but he smiles, and agrees and you become keenly aware of him at your back as you lead him up to your own apartment. You become slightly self conscious; it isn’t the nicest, most modern or chic place. It’s minimal but clean and tidy, soft blues, cremes, and whites adorn the living room and shared kitchenette. You let him in, tell him to make himself at home as you toe off your shoes and wander further in. 

“Coffee or tea?” You ask, thankful that’ll give you something to do, so you can get your fluttering heart under control. You don’t recall the last time you’ve had a man in your apartment and now Steve takes up so much space, hands in his pockets as he looks around. 

“Whichever you want,” He responds, disarmingly gentlemanly and charming. You opt for coffee because it will take a little longer to prepare, give you a spare moment of tinkering around in the kitchen.

“Do you like your coffee with sugar or milk?” You ask him over your shoulder, aware of how much you want to know, the domesticity of knowing the way he takes his coffee is not lost on you. 

“Just black is fine, honey.”

The pet name soothes you, but doesn’t entirely quell your nerves. 

 However, once its brewed, you step back over to Steve with a steaming cup and settle onto the couch beside him. Further than you were at breakfast. He accepts the coffee with a smile of thanks, taking a small sip before settling it on a coffee table. 

 

It should’ve taken longer for him to coax you closer, but you couldn’t help the way you gravitate towards him. The conversation is friendly, playful, light. The buzz of the coffee hums through you, making you jittery and lively. You’re animated, regaling him of stories of performing, of rehearsals. 

And before you know it, his smiling lips are pressing to yours, the taste of coffee and sweet cinnamon from the pastry earlier hitting you and it takes  _ all  _ of your self control to put a hand on his broad chest and push him away. He eases away, despite being strong and big enough to not budge. 

You stare at him with wide eyes, nervous and fretting, you let out a shaky breath. “I don’t--” You start, pause, try and grab your bearings, “I don’t want to lead you or Bucky on.” You say in a rush, feeling suddenly foolish. Perhaps your night with Bucky meant nothing to him, perhaps he wouldn’t care, perhaps--

Steve’s large palm, rough and calloused, cups your smooth, soft cheek. “Sweetheart, it’s okay.” He hushes you, eyes soft as he gazes at you, “I know about your date with Bucky. I know what you two...did.” 

Your cheeks smart with color, flushing with embarrassment, even a twinge of shame or a slight spark of irritation. Did they talk about you like that? Were you nothing more than a conquest? “I’m not  _ easy _ , Steve Rogers,” You get out, eyes burning, a bite of attitude. And a piece of you grows weary because should you be talking to one of the most powerful mobsters in the city like this? Absolutely not. But--

 “Woah, slow down,” Steve tries to soothe, surprise flickering through his face, “That’s not what I’m saying--” 

“Then what are you sayin’?” You fire back, lips almost coming out into a pout. 

Steve lets out a slow breath, gathers his thoughts, “Just that--” He starts, “Bucky and I share everything. Our business, the work, our manor,  _ everything _ .”  

You blink at him, taking in what he says, and when you say nothing, he presses on;

“Dames, too.” And he’s nervous, you can tell by the way he swallows, by the way his eyes turn a little pleading. “If we really like ‘em.” 

You pull away slightly, letting this slowly sink inside of you. You become uneasy, wary that you’re so naive and have been so swept away with them that you haven’t seen the way this might look. “I don’t wanna be either of your-- of your conquests. Or anything of the sort.” You tell him, feeling your heart squeeze, you  _ really  _ liked them. Had you been foolish? 

“No,” Steve says quickly, giving you that distance, even if his fingers twitch, wishing to reach out to you, reassure you. “No, we’re real serious about you.” 

Relief begins to flicker inside of you, but you aren’t quite ready to trust yet. “Do you tell this to all your girls?” You ask him, echo the same question that you asked Bucky. 

“No,” He responds again, stronger this time. And when you don’t soften, he sighs thinking for a moment, desperately wanting you to  _ see  _ how serious he is, before his eyes brighten and he finds your gaze, “Look, I’ll prove it to you--” 

And then his fingers are reaching beneath the collar of his shirt, unhooking a simple, thin gold chain. It glitters prettily in the afternoon light, catching and spinning in the air. And then he slips off an old,  _ expensive  _ looking gold ring, a white diamond resting in it’s center. You don’t bother questioning if it’s real, you’re quite certain it is. He slips the ring onto the chain, and then finds your eyes once more. 

“May I?” He asks, holding it up, open and offering to you. 

Your lips part. 

“That looks awfully expensive,” You say tentatively, eyes wide. 

“It  _ is.”  _ Steve responds, then adds, “And it’s got a lot of importance to me.” He holds your eyes, “And I want you to wear it. To prove that we’re serious about you, baby. We can’t get you out of our heads.” He says, voice softening, dropping to a murmur. “Now, can I put it on you?” 

You can’t help the rush of air that leaves you, the way your heart begins to melt for him. Your eyes are wide, uncertain, but you’re wavering. You _ want  _ to wear it. Because it’s his. Because he’s trying to prove that he  _ really  _ likes you. That Bucky does, too. “What does it mean?” You force yourself to ask, finding his eyes, “Am I your girl, then? Am I,” You pause, thinking, “Am I Bucky’s, too? How does this work?”   
“If you want,” Steve says in a fast breath, eager and earnest, “Whatever you want. However you want this to work.” 

“I want..” You begin, inching towards him, “I want to spend time with you  _ and  _ Bucky, before it’s all official.” You decide, eyes then falling to the sparkling, gold necklace in his hands, “But I’ll wear it, if you’re serious.” 

Steve lets out a breath of relief, let’s his shoulders relax slightly. “Of course,” He promises, and you shift, turn your back to him and offer your neck to him. 

His arms go around you, your back pressing against his strong chest. The chain is cool to the touch against your neck and chest, it rests low, in the dip of your dress, nestling between your breasts sweetly. Steve secures it and you glance down at it, seeing the way it glows against your skin. In your distraction, you don’t notice Steve until his lips suddenly brush the line of your shoulder. A gasp leaves you, warmth curling low inside of you. 

You blink, “Wait,” And immediately, he freezes, and you peak over your shoulder at him, demure, lovely. Steve has to force himself not to claim your lips again. “What about Sam?” You ask and Steve tilts his head slightly, nose skimming the line of your cheek, as he regards you a little curiously. 

“We trust Sam with our lives,” He begins, pressing a tender kiss to your cheek, “With everything that we share.” He then adds, a little more hushed. “We trust Natasha like that, too.” He drops another coaxing kiss just beneath your ear, lingering there, “You can trust them, too.” He murmurs in a way that might suggest  _ trust  _ does not just include  _ loyalty.  _ But your head is already reeling and there is time-- there is time to sort it all out, and not when Steve’s lips are soft and inviting. 

You lean back into him, melt and go pliant against his broad chest. His hands slide up your arms, lips moving against your neck, against your shoulder. Your breathing grows tremulous, especially as he opens his mouth against your skin, warm and wet and making you arch slightly. 

His broad palm meets your waist, slides up your body until you’re squirming with his touch, suddenly burning and heavy-lidded. Rough hands hitch your dress up higher, slide up one of your thighs. 

“Steve--” You start, heart ratcheting in your chest, “I’ve only ever done this once.” You admit quietly, shy and nervous. 

“It’s okay,” He murmurs against your ear, even if you can hear the slight edge in his voice, as if you’re driving him just on the right side of crazy. “Do you want me to stop?” He asks, halting the path his hand was on.

Your blood is rushing in your ears, head spinning but you-- you  _ want  _ this. You  _ want  _ him. You arch your hips towards his hand, shoulder blades pushing into him. “No,” You admit quietly. 

“Then I’ll go slow,” He responds, breath hitching as his hand slowly rides upward on the smooth, bare skin of your inner thigh. 

The first touch of his fingers at where you’re most sensitive could’ve burned you with the way your finger sink into his forearm, nails biting. Steve doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, but you can feel the slight smile against your neck, “You’ve got some claws, kitten?” He asks, tone light, almost playful, and you can’t help the way you mewl. 

And although you’ve gotten a little rough, he stays gentle, stroking soft, opening your body to him like a flower blooming, petals unfurling beneath his hands. He keeps you like this, desperate and whining pitifully in his arms, caressing over the silk of your little, pink bloomers. 

His fingers, nimble and quick, push them aside, brush against your core with a slick glide that pulls a shaky moan from you, and a sudden, low growl from him. It rumbles through him, into you, making your nails dig deeper into his forearm. 

“This all for me?” He murmurs, an edge to his voice, his finger gliding into you on an easy stroke. You whimper, body tensing.

 “Relax,” He commands, voice low, finger moving slowly until you listen to him, settle back into the safety of his arms. 

“Good girl,” He praises as you do, as you let pleasure sink into your bones, lashes fluttering against your cheeks. You can feel him watching you, watching the way your chest rises and falls, the way the gold of his ring looks against your bare skin. His mind flashes with you, nothing but his chain on and resting along your neck, it makes him twist his finger, try and wring pleasure from you, drive you as mad as he feels with you. 

And it works, because you cry out, arch against him. Soon, you’re gasping and half-begging him, wild with him before he grants you what you’re straining towards. You shatter for him, glittering like the gold around your neck, cheeks flushed, body surging with pleasure for him. 

“You’re stunning,” He praises, slowly easing you down from your high until you can open hazy eyes to glance back at him. He withdraws his hand, slipping his finger into his mouth the same way he’d done with the red sweet of the strawberry earlier. You watch with wide eyes for a moment, mouth popping open, before you twist in his lap and in a flash, press your lips to his. 

He’s surprised, your momentum taking you both backwards, but in a moment, he’s humming softly into the kiss, holding you tight to him as you stretch out over him on the couch. 

His firm body beneath you makes you melt, small hands squabbling at his biceps, on his chest. But he subdues you, settling you onto his chest, soothing the kiss into something lazy and sweet rather than heated and desperate. 

And that’s how you spend the afternoon; on his chest, letting him hold you, stroke careful fingers through your hair, dozing in his arms as you listen to his heart, and kissing lazily until you both have to return to reality. To work. 

Steve kisses you goodbye at the door, as sweetly as Bucky had, and you can’t help but sigh as you watch him go, fiddling with the gold around your neck. You feel entirely too soft on them already, tumbling sharply into new, blossoming emotions. 

When you open your mouth to sing at the Valkyrie that night, you can’t help the way the music seems sweeter, the way your voice carries a little more, glowing and warm. The stars seem brighter, your smile wider. 

Everything’s rosier and soft, so lovely that you could burst and you have a feeling it’s entirely to do with the men who’d walked into your life only a few, quick weeks ago.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on tumblr @ until-we-fall-in-love


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your relationship with Bucky and Steve continues to develop. Natasha keeps a close eye on you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone!! thank you all for the kind comments and feedback about this story! i have a lot of fun writing this series and it makes it even better to know others are enjoying it, too! 
> 
> this chapter got a little long and mostly just smut and fluff but at the ending, we finally get into a little bit more plot. Or like....a hint of what might come. 
> 
> thank you for reading!! your comments mean a lot to me so please let me know what you thought of this chapter!
> 
> come say hi on tumblr @ until-we-fall-in-love

You lean over the counter in front of the mirror, hips digging into the edge slightly as you adjust an earring that dangles prettily, catches and shimmers in the light of the dressing room. You are running slightly late for curtain call, simply because you’d been going over some changes to one of your solo songs while most of the girls got ready. You are left alone with the warm, perfumed air and your reflection in the mirror. 

Heels click against the wood floors and your eyes dart at the sound, turning slightly to see Natasha striding towards you languidly. Her movements are easy, graceful, fluid; almost lazy, as if she knows she is the best in any room. 

“I’ve been looking for you,” She begins, stepping nearer, coming to stand behind you. You look at her reflection in the mirror, your eyes catching and holding. 

For some reason, it feels intimate, especially as she takes another step nearer. You feel warm beneath the hot bulbs above the mirror. You pretend to fix your earring again so you won’t meet her eyes. 

“Is there something you need from me?” You ask lightly, your eyes focusing on a rhinestone in your earring. 

She closes the distance, so she presses herself along the length of your back. A squeak of surprise gets caught in your throat as you straighten up slightly, but you’re pinned between her and the counter. Her body is soft and lean against you, unlike the hard lines of Bucky or Steve. You flush deeply and you  _ shouldn’t _ feel a low swoop of excitement deep inside, but you do. 

Her hand reaches around, tugs at the golden chain Steve had given you; the one with his ring dangling from it. Bucky had also added his when you’d seen him next and they chime and twinkle as they knock into one another as she lifts it from its resting place against your chest. 

Her face is at the crook of your neck as she peers over your shoulder at the gold. “No.” She murmurs and you can almost feel her lips on the sensitive place at your jaw. Your fingers dig into the countertop. “But now that you wear  _ this,” _ And her fingers nimbly slip down to toy with the two, sparkling rings at the end of it, “You’re under my protection.” 

“Oh,” You exhale on a trembling breath, eyes fluttering, “F-from what?” 

A sharp, wicked smirk touches her lips, nearly against your neck. “You really have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.” She murmurs, pressing suddenly closer. “Surely, you understand that Bucky and Steve have  _ enemies.”  _

“Well, I guess I knew I just didn’t--” 

“Think of it?” Natasha asks, soft against your ear, but her eyes are focused on the rings around your neck still, expression suddenly less amused. “They don’t want to worry you.” Her free hand touches your waist, green eyes sharp, gutting you as you lock eyes in the mirror. You feel suddenly exposed as she gazes at your reflection, straight through it and into you. “But I think you should know considering there are already  _ rumors.”  _

“What kind of rumors?” You ask and wish your voice could be stronger, but it's breathy and delicate. Your pulse is jumping, feeling like prey pinned by a predator, rabbit-heart pounding furiously in your chest and you aren’t sure if it’s excitement or fear for all the danger Natasha seems to promise.  

“Only that they’ve met a girl they’ve got a real soft spot for.” Natasha says, her own face softening a fraction, nose skimming along the line of your jaw and under the haze of her, you tilt your head and offer her more room. “Which, makes you a target.” 

You blink, “A target?” 

“Yes,” Natasha breathes, almost hisses, “Which is why I want you to stay near me.” She murmurs and her lips finally brush the barest hint against the vulnerable vein in your neck. 

You gasp, soft and small. 

“Can you do that?” She insists, voice lowering to something smooth and warm, almost domineering. Her lips suddenly settle into a gentle, sucking kiss at your pulse point. 

“Yes,” You get out, tipping your head back against her shoulder. You feel the skim of her teeth, the way in which it becomes harsher, more brutal. 

She pulls away, lips hitching up into a sly smirk, her hand comes up to squeeze your jaw, forcing you to turn and face her now, your noses brushing. She holds your eyes, peers down at you until you cower a little against her. 

 “Try not to worry too much.” She tells you, “I’ll look out for you, darling.” She then cooes, almost teasingly, her fingers at your jaw squeezing so your lips pouted out a little before she drops you out of her hold and steps away. She slinks towards the door. 

“You’re on in five.” She then adds over her shoulder, slipping out of the dressing room and disappearing as if she’d never even been there at all. 

You blink back at your flushed face in the mirror, wondering what on earth had just happened. Steve’s words rattle around in your head, though;

_ You can trust them, too.  _

* * *

The following day, Steve and Bucky swing by to pick you up from your apartment and spend an afternoon in the park and conservatory, beneath the honey rays of the sun and cotton blue and white sky. 

It isn’t your first date as a trio, but you feel just as giddy for it. 

You’re dressed in a linen-cream day dress, light fabric that falls around your figure and flutters in the early summer breeze. Lace traces the edges, along the short, loose sleeves and hem. White, dainty kitten heels and a pair of short, satin, white gloves fit over your hands. They had cost too much when you’d gotten them, but you’d been  _ so _ enamored with the pearly fabric and delicate finish that you’d had to have them. A soft, robin’s egg blue hat adorns your head, a cream sash around it to match your dress quite spiffingly. Instead of a string of pearls that’s in fashion, the infamous golden chain which you have only come to remove while you shower or bathe, finishes off the simple outfit, their rings glinting in the sun against the skin of your chest.

Bucky greets you by taking quick steps, arms going around your waist as he lifts you clear off your feet and spins you. 

A surprised laugh falls from your lips, carrying on the breeze, twinkling and light. 

“You look like a movie star!” Bucky gushes, “A true starlet. Don’t you think, Stevie?” He asks into the crook of your neck, your hair brushing his cheeks and nose. Your magnolia, sweet jasmine scent, soft and mellow clary sage makes his head spin already. 

Steve smiles fondly as he watches Bucky set you back down easily, steadying you, before he plants a sloppy kiss on your cheek in formal greeting, forcing out another giggle from you as you scrunch your nose. 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, “You look incredible as always, sweetheart.” He then says and leans close to plant a much sweeter kiss to your temple. 

“Thank you,” You murmur shyly, demurely peaking up at Steve and he has to fist his hands in his pockets to keep from grabbing you by the back of your neck and crushing his lips to yours--

The drive to the park is simple and quick and you eagerly walk and strut along the paved trails beneath the patterned shadows and light that the trees cast on you through their leaves and reaching branches. You’re full of energy and vitality, a girl grown but still so new and fresh, the dew still clinging to you and sparkling. 

Bucky and Steve trail behind you, watching you gush over flowers or hum to yourself, twirling to face them and say something witty and wonderful. They’re enraptured with you, Bucky more affectionate than Steve, chasing after your skirts as you squeal and laugh, his lips curving against your cheeks, the corner of your mouth. But Steve will drop his hand to the small of your back, against the line of your waist when you come near enough. 

The fresh, strawberry-summer air is sweet and cleansing. It’s the perfect day to walk around outside, to step inside the tall, glass walls of a conservatory as the sun shines in on the exotic palms and flowers. The blue sky surrounds the sleek, clean glass, a background for the lush green of all the tropical plants within the massive greenhouse. 

You’ve never seen anything so extraordinary; as if you’ve been transported right into the thick jungles of the rainforest, humid and tangled with emerald plants and their jeweled, bright flowers. There are even colorful, fluttering birds that squawk and chirp and soar over your head. Little peach parrots and yellow, blue, or green birds that hop from branch to branch. 

“I love the birds,” You gush, face awash with awe and tenderness for the little creatures that playfully chase each other, your face tilted up to the skies to watch them. 

The sun kisses your face, honeydew rays that caress you the way the men at your sides want to, fingers twitching; Steve would brush your hair from your cheek so it curled around your ear. Bucky would touch your bottom lip, run his thumb over it with a tenderness he didn’t know he possessed until he’d met you. 

“Want us to get you some?” Bucky asks, fingers reaching out and snagging your waist, pulling you into his axis and drawing you into his arms with your back pressed to his solid chest. 

“Oh yes,” You laugh, thinking he’s joking, “Because they’ll do just wonderfully in my little apartment--” 

Bucky noses at your neck, “Well, Steve and I have room at our--” He stops, pulling back slightly, his fingers coming up and brushing a spot on your neck, “Stevie, you make this mark?” He asks over his shoulder. 

“Huh?” Steve starts, shifting to peer at your neck. 

Heat overcomes you as you realize that Natasha must’ve left a love bite. Shame flurries through you, too. Fear settles deep into the pit of your stomach. Will they be upset? Have you ruined it all by allowing Natasha so close? 

You whirl away from Bucky, turning to face him, hand going over the love bite on your neck to shield it from their gaze. Your heart hammers a little too hard. 

“I didn’t-- it wasn’t--” You stammer, just as Bucky’s eyes get a little darker, “Natasha did it!” You suddenly burst, feeling your face go as red as some of the flowers that perfume the thick air around you. 

Bucky barks out a laugh, much to your surprise.

“Oh,” Steve exhales.

Bucky approaches you again, snagging your wrist and forcing your hand away from your neck. 

“She caught me off guard, is all. I didn’t--” You try to explain, eyes flickering up to him, to gauge his reaction as he studies the small, blossom red mark that was left on your neck by her. He takes your chin in his rough hand, tilting your head away slightly to further expose the line of your neck to him. You feel vulnerable, small, especially as Steve steps behind you, caging you in as his broad palms settle onto your waist.  

“Did you like when she did that?” Bucky asks and you feel your breathing catch and stop from within your lungs. 

You stare up at him, wide eyed, perhaps fearful. Was he testing you?

_ Yes, _ you want to say honestly,  _ it’s Natasha, _ you think. With her curves and jade eyes, sly smile and low, lullaby voice that coaxes you into offering up your neck like sacrifice to those ruby lips.  

“I--” You start, stop. 

Bucky then lifts your chin to catch your eyes. “Be honest, doll.” He says in a stern voice, just on the right side of domineering that has you practically melting into Steve’s chest. 

You nod slightly, the shyest dipping of your chin as you gaze up at Bucky through your lashes. You feel half-mortified, wishing to hide, but being caught between them and feeling helpless. 

It shouldn’t make you warm with arousal, but it  _ does _ and now your breathing is quick, pupils dilating.

A slight, dark smirk touches Bucky’s lips. Almost wolfish and now you really  _ do _ try to squirm away, but all you do is ease further into Steve’s arms and warm chest. Bucky crowds you further, dropping his hand from your chin and nosing his way along your neck. “Minx,” He calls you before his teeth nip, pinch, then settle into his own sucking kiss over the love bite. 

You squeak, high and sharp, especially as the already tender skin of your neck is then bruised further by Bucky. His knee forces apart your legs and you  _ whimper, _ undignified and desperate before Steve hushes you softly, whereas Bucky only seems encouraged by the noise, a rumbling growl escaping him as his lips and teeth at your neck  _ do _ turn painful.

“Bucky,” Steve warns, but Bucky pays him no mind as his knee brushes your center, making you cry out pitifully-- 

Steve sinks a hand into the hair at the nape of Bucky’s neck and tightens it into a large fist, pulling  _ hard _ and focing Bucky away from your neck. “Ease off,” Steve says lowly and you have to bite your bottom lip to keep back another mewl at the sound.

Bucky’s flushed as he looks at Steve, eyes so dark and shining. You’re breathless because he looks handsome and a little unhinged, like he wants to devour you, like he wants to absolutely  _ wreck _ you and you-- you  _ want _ him to, you think. The warm heat of the pain from your neck radiates, almost makes you want more. The darkness in his features excites you more than it should. You’d  _ liked _ the way he’d growled and pushed you harder into Steve, feeling trapped and precious and small between them. 

Your head is foggy, but you catch Steve scolding him about how you  _ are _ in public still. To have some sort of  _ control. _ Bucky eases away, making you blink. Steve soothes a hand over your shoulders and back, seeing the tell-tale dazed look of arousal in your eyes that he’s come to know. 

“Poor honey,” Steve murmurs, pressing gentle, placating kisses to your cheek, your jaw. He brushes over the tender skin that’s been marked twice now, “Jesus, Buck,” He murmurs, “What are you, a vampire?” 

“I’m sorry, doll.” Bucky says, but he doesn’t seem very sorry at all. 

Your lashes flutter, “So, you aren’t mad?” You ask tentatively, “About Natasha?” 

Bucky scoffs, shakes his head, “Nah,” He says, “It’s just Tasha.” 

You glance at Steve for his own opinion; he shakes his head, too. “I told you, we trust Sam and Natasha with everything that we care about.” He assures you, slipping his hand into yours and guiding you further into the greenhouse, through the winding trails and beneath the wide, palm leaves.

“But I’m still,” You start, take in a slow breath to steady yourself, to try and clear your head, “Confused. Are there--” You pause to consider your words carefully, “ _ Boundaries? _ How far is too far with one of them?” You glance between them, “I’m supposed to be with you two, right? I don’t want to be disloyal, then.” 

Steve’s eyes soften, a fondness touching his features at your devotion, so sweet and pure and deep.

“Would it make you feel better if one of us was always around?” Steve asks, squeezing your hand.

You exhale, finally finding an answer that suits you. It’d make you feel more comfortable, more at ease. You’ve already begun to see them as safety and protection, too, already feel bolder with them at your sides, taking solace in their arms. “Yes,” You tell him, “It would make me feel much better.” 

“Then it’s settled.” Steve replies, bringing your hand up to place a reverent kiss to the inside of your wrist, right at the delicate pulse, the softness of the gesture melting your heart.

You spend the rest of the day with them at the park, end up lounging in the shamrock grass, rolling around in a clover field and laughing with wide smiles and flushed cheeks, the blue sky open and wonderful before your eyes.

You fall for them further, gentle, like a feather in the wind, a petal on a stream. 

* * *

A few more weeks of whirlwind dates during the day; they spend all the time they can spare with you, but they’re busy men. They take you shopping on more than one occasion, spoil you rotten with clothes and jewelry, anything your heart desires and you knew they were wealthy but you’re starting to wonder  _ how _ wealthy with the designer brands they gift you with; Coco Chanel, Madeleine Vionnet, Schiaparelli. It’s overwhelming, in some ways, but infinitely fun to wear the dresses they bought you out on dates. You’re catching eyes, suddenly fashion forward and unique, hanging off the arms of two of the most powerful men in New York, highlighting at one of the most popular speakeasies in the city. 

It’s a thrill. 

And they’re lovely to you, absolutely smitten. Natasha is convinced you have them wrapped around your little fingers. Sam is just as enraptured.

 Wanda is constantly quizzing you and asking you questions, most of which make you blush darkly under her gaze but you tell her, anyways, in soft whispers about what you  _ have _ and  _ haven’t _ done with them. You try to be vague with her, though, despite recalling in detail memories that make you squirm;

_ Steve with his head between your legs as you sit in Bucky’s lap, who holds you still despite all your squirming and begging. He likes to wrap his hand around your throat delicately, tip your head back onto his shoulder and look down the length of your bare body as Steve’s mouth makes you tremble.  _

_ Sometimes Bucky pushes his fingers into the soft warmth of your mouth, groans when you wrap your lips around them to try and stifle your whimpers. It’s dirty and lewd and you buck against Steve’s mouth, which opens against you and makes you fall apart. _

_ Or on your knees in front of Steve, nervous flutters in your stomach, Bucky beside you on the floor of your bedroom, his lips at your neck.  _

_ “I’ve only done this once.” You tell them meekly, wide eyes glancing up at Steve as your small hand wraps around him. He hisses, hips stuttering forward and into your palm.  _

_ “S’okay, doll.” Steve murmurs, fingers treading lightly through your hair. He has to find his control, though, with the way you’re looking at him, so hopelessly innocent and soft-- _

_ “Don’t worry, I’ll guide you.” Bucky murmurs, all sin and darkness as his hands roam your body.  _

_ “Good girl,” He praises when you take Steve between soft, parted lips and close around the tip. Steve groans, a little broken, desperately trying to stay gentle with you. _

_ “How’s she feel?” Bucky asks eagerly, glancing up at Steve’s face, twisted in pleasure.  _

_ “Amazing.” Steve gets out, just as you take him a little deeper, breathing slow, lashes fluttering against your cheek.  _

_ Or the times that Bucky makes you see stars so much that you start crying, babbling, unsure what you’re even begging for as Steve kisses away the tears on your dolly pink cheeks. Bucky likes to make you cry, you find out, tells you how pretty you are when you’re made a mess by him.  _

“But you haven’t…?” Wanda trails off and you know what she’s asking, feel sheepish with her wide eyes on you. 

“Not yet.” You tell her softly, in the hazy dark of the dressing rooms after most have gone home. “I haven’t been to their house yet, either.” 

 

That changes in a few days time, though. You haven’t seen Bucky or Steve in a week or so because of how busy they’ve been, but Bucky phones you to tell you that he’s going to pick you up after your performance that night and bring you back to their place. He assures you that you can stay the night, if you’d like, or he can take you home whenever. 

You have every intention of staying the night, despite not exactly knowing what to expect of their home. And though you’re aware of their wealth, you aren’t at all prepared for the manor that sits atop a hill on the bay in Long Island. Like a modern castle on the outside, all pointed roofs and proud brick at the very back of their lot. The expanse of green; manicured shrubs and a pond with a fountain that bubbles prettily, even in the dark of night, lights casting it in a silver, pearly glow. 

The inside is even more incredible, all glittering marble and tall ceilings, chandeliers, and winding staircases. Tall windows beneath arches, plush sofas and extravagance. It’s incredible, takes your breath away. 

Steve promises you can explore more in the morning when it’s light out, since you’ve decided to stay the night. And with that, Bucky grabs you firmly around the middle and  tosses you over his shoulder. You squeal, laughter bright and pinging in the cavernous house as he leads you to a bedroom. Steve’s specifically, you think, but you wonder if Bucky usually stays here, too. 

He tosses you down onto the bed, which is large and spacious, plush blankets beneath you that your fingers spread out on and feel. Bucky covers you then with his own body, crawling up the length of you, lips dragging over your skin as he murmurs, “Missed you all week, princess.” 

You giggle at his eagerness, his lips finding your smiling ones. “Missed you, too.” You get out before he deepens the kiss further. You feel the bed dip, Steve’s body stretching out to lay beside yours and you squirm under Bucky, breaking the kiss and leaning over to catch Steve lips, too. 

“Missed you, too, Stevie.” You sigh against him and he returns the sentiment with a low hum into the kiss, making your fingers twist in his hair. 

You can feel Bucky’s straying hands, impatient as he is, already working off your stockings and bloomers. You kick your leg a little at him, just to be a brat, even if you’re just as impatient, the heat inside of you becoming pressing and needy as you continue to kiss Steve. Bucky gives you a sharp nip to your inner thigh, just above your knee as punishment. 

You yelp against Steve’s lips, the place sensitive and stinging now. 

Cool air hits your bare legs, followed by Bucky’s plush mouth, warm and yielding against your inner thigh. You squirm, your body moving and pushing along the length of Steve’s and his lips part from yours, hovering. His breathing is rougher, broad palm reaching out to grasp and slide along your ribs, up beneath your chest.

Bucky’s lips move upwards already, wrestling you into being still when your hips begin to jerk and arch at the warmth of his mouth. 

You cry out sweetly, right against Steve’s lips when Bucky’s mouth finds where you’re most sensitive. 

Steve glances down the length of your body, catching Bucky’s eyes. “What’s the rush?” He gets out, voice gruff, but his fingers are running over your breasts through the fabric of your dress. There’s an urgency in their actions, which makes you feel dizzy and lightheaded, fingers sinking into Bucky’s dark hair to try and anchor yourself. 

Steve never gets a response. Just your bitten back moan as Bucky rolls his tongue against you, eyes darting up to find your face scrunched up in pleasure, soft little cries falling from your honeyed lips that he fucking  _ loves _ . 

Their hands are everywhere; Steve’s pushing up your dress, rough hands on the delicate skin of your hips and stomach. You arch under the starlight for them, feeling half-possessed with the heat and their mouths and hands, the ferocity with which they grab you. The mercury slick light, silver and sparkling catches the planes of your cheeks, your hair spread out around Steve’s pillow.

He thinks he wants to draw you like this, the fabric of your dress catching and bunched, ripples or sparkles from the sequence under the light of the stars. Your lips open and soft, tempting and ballet pink. 

Steve slips his fingers between your lips because he can, because it drives him crazy to feel the warmth of your mouth, the tentative brush of your tongue. 

You mewl around them, fuss and try to squirm in Bucky’s arms but he’s got you-- he’s got you tough and hard, even when you fracture, falling apart into what feels like thousands of pieces, Steve’s fingers falling from your mouth as you cry out. 

“Bucky,” You plead, voice high and desperate; Steve can tell you’re getting too sensitive already. “Bucky, s-stop.” You try to get away, try to push his head away but he pulls you tighter, forces you flush to his mouth again. 

You almost sob, begging and whining as you twist and turn on his sheets. Usually Steve forces Bucky to back off, but he’s suddenly far too intrigued with the tremble in your voice. He takes your chin between his fingers and turns you to him, pressing his lips to yours, petal crushed and slick and gasping beneath him. 

He catches your wrists, pulls your hands from Bucky’s hair and forces them above your head. You keen, all precious and perfect beneath him. 

“Keep your hands there for me.” Steve murmurs against your lips.

“Steve--” You gasp, begging. 

He kisses you hard, silencing you, leaving no room for argument before his lips fall down the line of your neck, down to your chest in heated, sloppy kisses. He pushes your dress up, wriggles it over your head and you’re left in a lavender and creme bralette, soft lace that covers your chest. 

You strain, desperately trying to keep your arms where Steve placed them. Bucky groans against you, vibrations making you gasp, glancing down at him where he rolls his eyes up to meet your face, fever bright and dazed, drunk off you. 

You whimper, lashes fluttering. Steve’s hands rid you of your bralette now, too. 

You’re completely bare, soft skin turning dewy against the silk sheets, hands grasping at the bed board above your head for an anchor,  _ anything-- _

All it takes for you to fall apart again is Steve’s broad hand on your breast, followed by his warm mouth on the peak, Bucky still greedily, happily between your legs. The pressure builds sharp, then bursts inside of you and you let out a broken cry, raw and high as you tense up, tears caught on your lashes. 

Bucky finally lets up, looking too smug for your swimming eyes, tears brimming in the corners, as he crawls up the length of your hypersensitive body, hips still squirming. 

He settles his hips in the cradle of yours, just as Steve pulls him in for a bruising kiss. You’re heady with them, watching as Steve tastes you on Bucky. It’s a rough kiss, makes Bucky groan darkly, makes you whimper, hips canting forward and into Bucky’s. Eagerly, his hips rock into yours, too, just before he pulls away from Steve to look at you. 

“God, look at you,” Bucky breathes, eyes flying over you wildly, hunger still burning in the blue of his eyes, “Such a sweet girl.” He croons, sinful and low and you can’t believe your hips twitch again against his.  

You already feel wrecked, and yet, horribly empty and craving. Insatiable.

“Listens so well.” Steve praises, pressing wet kisses to your cheek, your jaw. 

You hitch your leg over Bucky’s waist, arch your hips and try to entice him into rocking into you again, which he obliges, so you can feel the hard line of him where you want him most-- where you want Steve. 

Your head is spinning. 

“I w-want you.” You blurt out, looking up into Bucky’s face, just as he rolls his hips again. Your eyes flicker to Steve, desperate for him, too.

“Greedy little thing,” Bucky hums, and then, “You have us, sweetheart.” 

Your cheeks heat up, unable to say the words, but pushing your hips back into Bucky’s. “No, I  _ want _ you.” You try to say, flustered with the whininess in your tone, feeling utterly exposed, stretched out beneath Bucky, Steve at your side. 

Bucky cocks a brow, tilts his head slightly. “Oh?” He says lightly, “How do ya want us, doll?” He croons, teeth dragging over your ear lobe, “Huh? Use your words.” 

You try not to grow too frustrated or flustered; wish you had the grace or confidence to tell him blankly what you desire from them, but you’re already on the brink of tears, made messy and impatient for them. You shudder out an exhale. 

“I want you inside me.” You whisper, ducking your head shyly into Bucky’ shoulders. 

“What? Like my fingers?” Bucky teases cruelly, as if for emphasis, his fingers dig into the supple skin of your thighs. 

“Buck,” Steve finally warns, catching your eyes as you turn your face to him. Steve’s fingers brush your hair from your face, gentle and patient where Bucky’s are rough and prodding. 

“Are you sure, honey?” Steve asks and it’s infinitely soft, prying gently to see the truth of your admittance. 

You leave yourself open, expressive, nodding quickly with your glistening eyes and damp lashes, cheeks gone cherry blossom and lips fruit-punch sweet and stung; pretty, prim girl that’s been made debauched and still begging for it. 

“Get up, Buck.” Steve murmurs and to your surprise, Bucky complies with little complaint, easing off of you, cold air suddenly rushing over your bare body. Your arms are still stretched above your head, just as Steve told you. He now takes Bucky’s place, hips finding yours and he snakes his arms around you, pulling you up to his chest. “Wrap your arms around me.” He murmurs and eagerly, you comply, pulling yourself flush to him, burying your tear damp face into the crook of his neck as he eases you both up, so you’re in his lap. 

“You’re sure?” He asks again to be certain, holding you like your precious. 

“Yes, I’m sure.” You say into his neck, holding fast to him. 

Bucky pouts a little about Steve being the first but he still helps undress him, loses his own clothes in the process until you cling to Steve’s naked chest and shoulders, straddling his waist. He’s hard and pressing against your inner thighs and when you shift slightly, he brushes between your legs, slick and warm. 

It isn’t your first time; you’ve done this before, but it wasn’t like this, it was never like this--

Steve stills you with a huge arm around your torso, muscled and strong, protective and half-possessive, lifting you slightly. “I’ll go nice and slow,” He promises lowly, kissing the tender juncture of your shoulder as he reaches down, angles slightly. Bucky presses up against your back, the hard line of him along the curve of your waist. 

You nod barely, lust hazed and heady with them. 

You feel Steve press against your core, his hips tipping, angling into yours. Bucky kisses your shoulder, hands lifting your waist for Steve and then there’s a burn, a stretch--

You cry out; baby, kitten cry into Steve’s skin. 

Steve eases you down, just as Bucky cooes and hums in your ear;

_ Perfect girl, look at you taking Steve.  _

_ I’ve got you, it’s okay, angel. _

_ Good girl. _

“Oh,” You gasp brokenly, feel Steve bottom out, deep and filling and aching. 

Steve bites back a groan, stilling to give you time, to be gentle and slow, just as he promised. Molten heat settles into your core, sticky warmth and Steve’s breath against your chest. Your tense muscles suddenly go slack, boneless, little doll that rolls her head against Bucky’s shoulder. 

You shift your hips, arch your back, mewl and sigh and burn.

Steve lifts you, pushes back into you in a slow, deep stroke. You groan, Bucky’s lips suddenly crashing down onto yours just as Steve begins a steady,  _ lovely _ pace. His grip turns rougher, Bucky’s kiss desperate to taste you, hands bruising near Steve’s. 

The kiss turns sloppy, your fingers tugging and twisting in Steve’s hair, whose mouth is open and works against your chest, messy, imperfect and warm. You can’t help the soft noises you make into Bucky’s mouth. 

“That’s it,” Steve encourages as you grow relaxed and eager and desperate.

Bucky pulls away from you sharply, breath ragged and all he’s done is  _ kissed _ you, “How’s she feel, Stevie?” He asks, voice rough, lips hovering over yours. 

“Fuckin’ perfect.” Steve grits out, the slick slide of him making your back arch, “So tight, so fuckin’  _ good.” _ He says roughly, strokes growing deeper, faster. You keen, pliant and bathed in silverlight, heavenly and darling, hair spilling onto Bucky’s chest and shoulder.  

Bucky moans just at Steve’s words, just at the thought of  _ you _ , right against your lips. 

He shifts then, fisting himself, needy and pressing against your side. Steve takes the opportunity to ease you down, back hitting the bed with a gasp, followed by your sweet moan as he pushes back in on an easy stroke. 

“Steve,” You get out, nails dragging over his shoulders. 

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” He husks against your ear, hitching your hips up, shifting the angle so your mouth falls open, brows pulling together, fingers curling into hard muscles. 

Steve eases back, shifting, making room for his fingers as he continues to move in you. Your nerves flare, making you whimper, needy and dizzy. You turn your eyes to Bucky, wanting him, too, letting your lips part and he presses himself there, let’s you draw him into your sugared mouth. 

He groans when you close your lips around where he’s swollen and aching, too, grabbing onto Steve’s shoulder so he doesn’t rut into your mouth as his eyes burn and flare as he desperately watches where you and Steve meet. 

Your lids go heavy and sated, lips spit-slick and messy, and your legs are sticky, dewy, glistening but its just you three, just the dark thunder blue of Steve’s eyes and the curses and praises that keeps spilling from Bucky’s pouty, kiss-stung lips. 

It’s heaven and sin and hell all at once and you don’t last much longer, pulling off Bucky because you feel like you’re going to _lose_ _it_ , fingers twisting in the sheets. 

“There’s our girl,” Steve praises as he feels you tighten, growls low and quickens, hitting deep and sweet inside of you until you’re falling apart all over again; all halo heat and blooming pleasure until you’re trembling, crying all over again. 

Steve doesn’t last, either, pulling out of you spilling messy onto your stomach and hips, some onto your thighs. He eases off you, settles back by your side and presses kisses all over your wet cheeks, praising and murmuring softly as you feel Bucky shift, take his place. 

His hand comes down on the mess that Steve made on your stomach, fingers sliding through, ruining you worse. His sticky fingers prod at your lips and you open automatically, all dazed and soft, close your lips around his fingers, tongue tasting the salty tang of Steve and you flush deeply with another bout of arousal somehow, head floating and hazy.  

“You got one more in you for me, princess?” Bucky asks and you can feel him already against where you’re still pulsing and slick and sticky. He purposefully lays his body along yours, makes more of a mess, spreads it between you two and it’s  _ dirty _ and  _ lewd _ and you give a broken little cry before Bucky eases in suddenly, trying to be slow but he can’t help himself, and you give a soft yelp with the rough thrust. 

“Easy,” Steve warns him, sitting up slightly, gripping the back of his neck. Bucky groans, half-whines, but slows into a more languid pace that makes you glow and arch again, rubbing your cheek to his. He turns his head, lips fall over yours again, heated and insistent and he feels different than Steve but  _ good _ still, rougher, teeth nipping against your plush, lower lip. 

He pulls away to bury his face in the crook of your neck, tucking himself there as he ruts into you, strokes growing more and more desperate. Steve’s broad hand runs down his flank. 

Bucky’s hand slides down your body, back between your legs, “C’mon, angel, one more for me.” He purrs but it edges onto more of a growl, his voice tighter, a little more desperate. His thrusts grow sloppier. 

“Don’t you dare come before her.” Steve warns him and Bucky  _ does _ growl now, low and rumbling through him and right into you, half-irritated and fingers quickening against your peach-slick flesh. You whine, fussing slightly at the overstimulation, already feeling the rise of another wave though, this time sharper, almost scarier. You grit your teeth, eyes screwing shut. 

“B-Bucky,” You whine, maybe try to warn, voice raw, another tear slipping down your cheek.  

“Come for me, baby.” Bucky commands darkly, a little more wild with you, sinking teeth into the fluttering heartbeat on your neck and that’s  _ it, _ that’s all it takes for you to rupture. 

This one is somehow the strongest, your mouth falling open in a soundless groan, digging your nails into Bucky’s shoulders, half-crescents and kitten scratches burn red against his back. It’s sharp and almost painful, bursting hot and quick inside of you, turning inferno and white-flame. 

And then Bucky’s finishing, too, pulling out and spilling onto your thighs, onto the already sticky mess of your stomach. His own abs glisten with Steve’s still, cheeks flushed, his mouth open and breathing ragged before he collapses over you. He covers you and holds you as you cry and squirm and mewl in the sensitive, nerve-shocking aftermath. 

Steve hushes you, stroking your hair and face, praising you reverently under the ivory, blue moonlight, Bucky’s lips trying to soothe you, gentle and sated and mellow. 

You doze in their warmth; boneless, exhausted, blissful. 

 

It’s Steve who urges you and Bucky up not long after, drawing a bath in the porcelain, clawfoot tub from the connected bathroom. It takes Steve lifting Bucky off you, but he manages to get you both in the warm water, frothy and soft seafoam to clean you. You sink into the warmth, hair curling with the humidity and Bucky kisses you slow and sweet against the lip of the tub. Wipes your face with warm, dripping fingers, clears you of tears and makeup. 

Steve watches from the doorway, striped pajamas slung low on his waist, blue eyes heavy and loving. He’s there with a plush towel afterwards, bundles you up in his arms. 

“Are you alright?” He murmurs, “How are you feeling?” 

You blink up at him, slow, sleepy. But your heart is rosy and warm, sated and sanguine. 

“Absolutely perfect.” You tell him earnestly, little voice hushed, as if you’re telling him a precious, jeweled secret. 

He looks at you in awe for a moment, mesmerized by something in your features, as if you’re as bright and brilliant as a star in the sky. Then he kisses you fondly, lifts you easily and brings you back to bed as if it’s where you belong. 

You had brought a nightgown for sleep, but care little now as you lay against Steve’s naked chest, feel the lullaby beat of his heart. Bucky’s body curls around yours, fingers dragging gently over your bare shoulders and you slip into perhaps the easiest, sweetest sleep, like a babe in her cradle, like a lamb in a meadow. 

* * *

You sleep late; wake up with Bucky’s face in your chest, arm half-asleep and your legs slung over his waist with all the twisted sheets. Steve is missing, though enters just as you’re blinking, easing awake.

He wakes Bucky then with a hint of a mischievous smile, roughly jarring him from sleep. Bucky groans and drags you closer and it takes nearly fifteen minutes to squirm free to ready for the day. 

But when you do, you’re full of new energy and life, excitedly uncovering new parts of their mansion in the bright, lovely daylight. 

Sam lives here, you learn, nearly tackle him in a hug; perhaps too excited but he holds fast to you, your arms going around his neck. His lips press little kisses to your cheek, the corner of your lips, just as eager to see you.  

He falls back beside Bucky and Steve as they watch you explore, now rushing outside to the glimmering, sapphire water of the swimming pool in the backyard. The birds sing, twinkling and infinitely happy. The wind tousles your hair. 

“This is incredible!” You gasp, kneeling beside the pool, letting your fingers drift through the glittering water, it sparkles beneath your fingertips. Your smile is radiant. 

“She really brightens the place up,” Bucky says softly to the two men at his sides, eyes soulful and touched, watching you with a warm gentleness. Steve isn’t sure the last time he’s seen his face so open and vulnerable.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees softly, his smile fond, serene, “Like she belongs here.”

And all Steve can do is watch, enamored; hopelessly falling, heart softening and melting for you at a rate he should be frightened by. 

But it’s just you against an open sky, and there are no words for the way he feels, just the need to see you like this forever, tucked safely by his heart and in his home; laughing and open and free. 

* * *

The next night, at the Valkyrie, Natasha acts rather strangely for awhile. She lingers around you, eyes caught on you sharp and hard. 

At the end of your performance, when you try to leave for the night, purse clutched between your hands, you are stopped by a man with dark hair, dark eyes, and a hard face.

He snags your wrist, almost viciously, “What’s the rush, babydoll?” He asks, “Why don’t you hang around?” 

Worry prickles through you, “I’m sorry, I’d like to get home for the night.” You tell him politely, pulling slightly, but his grip around your wrist is an iron cage, insistent and unmoving. Your heart rate spikes, fear slinking slowly through you. Your eyes fly out, towards the crowds, towards the bar, for Natasha. 

“C’mon now,” He says and it’s tight and forced, pulling you towards him. 

You stumble into his chest, try and push yourself away but he’s got you hard and fast suddenly, viper grip, poisonous touch. 

“Please, I-I don’t--” You babble, struggling against him. 

“Rumlow.” A familiar voice warns, cutting and dangerous. 

_ Natasha. _ Relief floods through you like cool, crisp water. 

The man picks his head up at what seems to be his name. His eyes narrow on Natasha. 

He lets you go without another word and you quickly ease back to Natasha, let her step in front of you to shield you. Your small hand buries in the back of her dress, ducking your head behind her shoulders. 

“I don’t want trouble, Romanoff.” The man,  _ Rumlow, _ tells her, “Just a little fun.”  He tries to grin but its hooked and sets you on edge.  

“Not tonight.” Natasha says, voice like steel and blade, “Not here.” She tilts her head, “You know you’re not welcome here.” She says and your heart races. 

Rumlow holds up his hands, as if he means no harm, “Alright, alright, I’ll leave.” He concedes easily, perhaps too easily. Natasha’s eyes narrow, you can see the skepticism in her features, even in the shadows of the club. 

Rumlow dips his head low, tries to force you to meet his eyes, “Goodnight, sweetheart.” He tells you pointedly and you can’t look at him, focus your eyes on the red curls around Natasha’s neck. 

You duck further behind her as he eyes you more fully. Natasha steps into his line of vision and he concedes after a lingering, heavy moment. 

She waits for his shadow to leave, tracks him all the way out. 

You can tell something inside of her sinks, worry settling heavily around her shoulders. Her face is tighter, a little pinched as she turns back to you.  

“Are you okay?” She murmurs, fingers brushing the wrist he grabbed, eyes flying over your features. 

“Yes,” You exhale, “Thank you.” 

She shakes her head, as if she doesn’t want your thanks at all. “I’m going to walk you home tonight.” She tells you instead. 

You don’t argue, but you do press, “Who was he, Natasha?” 

Her ruby lips turn downwards, she debates telling you, before settling on, “Brock Rumlow. He’s from a rival mob.” She shakes her head, “I don’t like the way he was looking at you.” 

“Oh,” You say, a little dumbly, very unsure suddenly. Should you be worried? Whose mob was he from? How dangerous was he? You become keenly aware of all that you don’t know, feeling suddenly lost. 

“Hey,” She catches your chin, brushes her thumb along your jaw, “I told you I’d protect you.” She murmurs, “You’re okay,” She assures, half-cooes, “You’re safe.”

You nod lightly, softening under her gaze. “I know.” You sigh lightly. 

She holds your gaze for a moment before lowering her hand. “Now, c’mon, let’s get you home.” 

You tuck yourself against her side, hook your arm through hers and let her lead you home in the darkened streets, the cloudy night shielding moon and stars. Just the glow of streetlights, manmade and iron. 

She ends up staying the night, upon your quiet request when you've reached your door. She watches you fall asleep, hair splayed out on a pillow, silk nightgown trussed up and twisted around you. 

You sleep fitfully, only comforted with Natasha’s lingering, soothing touches. She murmurs to your sleeping form; caressing words, promises of safety and gentleness and care, perhaps phrases in a foreign language. 

But she stays until morning light, vigilant at your side, until she presses a kiss to your temple and disappears with the slipping of dawn into day. 

She heads straight for the estate, for Steve and Bucky and Sam, to warn them about who was so interested in their girl, in  _ you. _ You who seemed so defenseless to Natasha with your wide, wondering eyes and untouched innocence, sleeping curled up and tucked delicately into bed;

Like a babe in a cradle, a lamb in a meadow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You spend an afternoon with Wanda, and trouble begins in the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again everyone! im sorry for the wait on this chapter, i've started school again but i'm finally all settled and will hopefully get a little more time to write here and there! thank you to everyone who has supported this story!   
> also, i'm very sorry for not responding to comments on here; i'm better with tumblr but from now on i'll try to be better about responding on here, too! but i just want you to know that those comments do mean a lot to me and when i'm struggling writing or need a pick-me-up, i always return to those comments <3   
> please let me know what you think of this chapter!!! thank you!!  
> ALSO!!! quick warning, i use "daddy" as an endearment in this chapter, but only because it was slang in the 1920s, it's not really a daddy kink. but just fyi!!  
> come say hi to me on tumblr @until-we-fall-in-love

The phonograph spins on and on as jazz slides from it easily, filling the room with upbeat, infectious music. You’re a little tipsy from tequila that Sam snuck you only an hour or so earlier. You dance freely in the open space of the parlor of the manor, moving to the beat of the music swiftly and smoothly, your dress flashing prettily under the dim lighting. 

Bucky lounges lazily on the couch, moonlight casting him in quicksilver, wolf that he is, watching you dance and spin with hunger in his eyes and a drink in his hand. His legs are spread invitingly, splayed for you, blue eyes devilish. He likes to watch you like this; carefree and wild, hair a mess and hitching your dress up high. He likes you _ here, _ in his house, dancing like this for him and for you.

Sam laughs with you now, twirling you around in his arms; he’s a real smooth dancer, managing to keep up with you just fine. You’re having fun, Sam’s giving you the love and attention you like- the sweet kind that makes you sing. The kind Steve gives more often, but he’s out working tonight, won’t be back until much later. Sam whispers something in your ear with a crooked, familiar grin and Bucky watches the pretty flush crawl over your cheeks, wants to chase it down your neck and chest with his lips and tongue. You glance at him, doe eyes pretty and fluttering. 

The song dwindles into the next, something slow and raunchy, dirty and crooning. Sam immediately takes you in his arms, sets a slow, grinding pace with body and hips. He pulls you flush, flattens his large hand on your stomach to guide you, lips brushing your ear, at your neck. 

You catch Bucky’s eyes as you lean back into Sam, holding his gaze for a long moment. Maybe to make him jealous, sly little grin touching your lips before you turn into Sam’s embrace. You wind your arms around his neck, dance close and smooth with him. You’ve gotten bolder recently, a new flare of attitude that surfaces; feisty and a touch bratty.

It drives Bucky wild with you, caught between wanting to spoil you further or take you over his knee. He watches the roll of your hips against Sam, watches the way you toss your head back and laugh with him, burning like the little flame you are. 

You’re enrapturing, a constant presence that Bucky can’t get enough of. And neither can Sam, it seems. He pulls you right down into his lap when the song softens out and rolls into the next one. You sink into his chest happily, letting your head loll back against Sam’s broad shoulder. 

Sam’s hands are on your waist, on your thigh, moving upwards slowly. Bucky catches Sam’s eyes over your head, blue glittering darkly, as they snag on him. And Sam knows that look, too. 

“You seem awfully snug over there.” Bucky says to you with a slow grin, no malice or jealousy in his voice, but there is something seductive to it. Something that draws your eyes to his curved lips, to his lap. 

“I am,” You chirp back with a pretty smile, arching your back a little into Sam’s palms. 

Bucky laughs darkly, the sound sinking low inside you and coiling. your bravado flickers then winks out, only leaving you with the sudden, quick burn of neediness for him.  _ It’s unfair, _ you mourn, with how quickly and seamlessly he manages to unravel you. You try not to pout at him.

As if Sam can feel your sudden shift, his nose skims the line of your neck, nuzzles there as if to soothe you or placate you. 

“Brat,” Bucky calls you, watches the way you squirm slightly in Sam’s arms. “You’ve gotten quite the attitude lately, bunny.” 

“Leave her be, Buck, she’s just having fun.” Sam murmurs into your neck, flashing him a slightly teasing smile. And you melt against him, syrupy and sweet-eyed and soft and Bucky just wants to wind a hand in your hair and—

“Get over here,” Bucky then says, voice dipping into a command that immediately makes your eyes flutter to him. You blink, cheeks warm, a little drunk on the warmth of Sam.

“I’m not gonna say it again, doll.” Bucky presses, eyes dark on you and sending a thrill through you.

You slip from Sam’s arms, stand on suddenly coltish feet. Your stomach flutters, warmth curling inside of you eagerly with the look in Bucky’s eyes. 

“No,” Bucky says and you halt before you can take another step. “Crawl to me.” 

Your stomach falls way, heart suddenly jumping and heat scorches up your spine. You feel your face warm, too, nerves pulling at you because it’s Sam that’s watching, too and—

You lower yourself to your knees, watch Bucky’s eyes, predatory and hungry follow you all the way. You can feel the soft burn of Sam’s eyes, too, and it shouldn’t make you want to whine and beg and roll over easy and pliant for them but it  _ does.  _

In a haze, you crawl over to Bucky; it’s lewd, it’s dirty but it’s a little freeing, letting your lips part and eyes shine for him. Letting yourself go, little wild thing on her hands and knees for him. The thought strikes you deeply, down into your core, and you lean into it. 

You slink over to him, until you kneel between his spread legs prettily, back arching. 

“Good girl,” Bucky purrs, sinking a hand into your hair, his eyes burning. 

He casts his glance to Sam over your head, whose chest is rising and falling a little harder. 

“You want Sam to touch you?” Bucky then asks and the question guts you seamlessly. You can hear Sam’s intake in breath. Feel your own heart stutter and tumble inside your chest. You look up at Bucky with wide eyes, searching his face. 

“Is that okay?” You murmur to him, your palms sliding over his knees, up his thighs. 

“If you want it, it is.” He responds easily, stroking a hand through your hair.

You glance back at Sam, heart swooping before you nod quickly, blush rising high on your cheeks. 

“Use your words, honey.” Bucky croons just to torment you.

You throw a glare at Bucky, pouting slightly, petulant little thing between his legs and his fingers tighten in your hair a fraction, daring you to disobey or talk back. 

You don’t, instead you draw in breath. 

“I want Sam to touch me.” You get out softly, petal lips open and pink as you peak at Bucky through your lashes.

“Atta girl,” Bucky praises again and now he looks back at Sam. “You wanna undress her?” Bucky asks him, and then a smirk, devilish and crooked pulls at the corner of his lips, “Or do you want her to strip?” 

Your breathing comes in quick, cheeks flaming again, small fingers tightening in the fabric of Bucky’s pants, a twinge of nervousness creeping in. 

As if Sam senses it, he moves to you. 

“I’ll undress her,” Sam responds, dropping to his knees, too, so his chest is pressed to your back, a strong and gentle presence behind you. Soft, broad hands on your waist, steadying you. He dips his head to place warm, open mouth kisses to your neck. 

“I’ve got you,” He murmurs, nose nudging your jaw, your overheated cheek.

You sigh delicately, lean into him, into his hands. You trust Sam, can feel his affection and tenderness for you in every press of his fingers, every brush of his open palms as he slowly rids you of your clothes. 

And then you’re bare, kneeling between Bucky’s spread legs, Sam pressed behind you and you can feel your breath hitching, the slow roll inside of your core. 

Sam kisses the nape of your neck, the line of your shoulder, so sweet and gentle with you. 

Bucky’s hand fists in your hair rough and domineering, though. 

You make a quiet noise of surprise, but your eyes flutter back up to Bucky, who's watching you darkly. He works his pants off with ease, the sound of his zipper cutting through the air, Sam’s calloused fingers along the underside of your breast. 

You part your lips, let Bucky guide you to where he wants, his other hand cradling your jaw surprisingly gentle as you take him into the warmth of your mouth. He groans slightly, hips hitching upwards. 

It’s Sam who murmurs, “Such a sweet girl,” While his lips burn a path over your shoulders, a sensitive spot on your spine. His hand crests over the line of your hips, down to your inner thigh. Your eyes flutter shut at the first glide of his fingers, the low hum of his voice, all silk and honey against your throat. 

“God, she’s so wet, Buck.” Sam gets out, fingers pressing, seeking, gliding through you. You moan, broken and soft, around Bucky. “And I’ve barely touched her.” 

“She’s always eager,” Bucky gets out, eyes hooded as he gazes down at you, not bothering to be particularly gentle with you tonight. Your eyes water with another firm press of his hips into your mouth, and you let your glittering eyes glance up to him. 

Another pass of Sam’s fingers and you let your own hips arch into his touch, excited, desperate. And Sam, unlike Bucky, even unlike Steve sometimes, gives in easily to you. He seeks out how to make you squirm, finds the bundle of nerves and sets to making you sink into his arms. You keen, pulling off Bucky to breathe, a tear slipping down your face that Bucky greedily presses into your skin, fascinated and eyes gleaming. 

“Sam,” You whimper, push back into him. 

“You like that, babygirl?” He coos, warm and you can feel the smile tugging at his lips against your jaw. Proud of himself, eager to give you whatever you want, fingers slippery wet where you’re soft and tender and aching. 

You nod pitifully in Bucky’s hands, who suddenly squeezes at your jaw, forcing your lips into a pretty pout. “With words, bunny.” He husks, watching as you squirm desperately between the two. 

“Yes,” You gasp out, just as Sam’s fingers curve sweetly inside of you, lips parting, which Bucky takes advantage of again. Eager to please him, you take him back into the heat of your mouth, sighing with his fingers in your hair. 

There’s nothing and no one but them, but the pleasure they give and take and bring you to. It’s intoxicating, to let go and be a creature born only out of this lust and love and bliss, eager and breathless to please them. Bucky falls apart with a curse, spills down your throat and you warm with a base, raw satisfaction in his pleasure. 

Sam’s praises curl around your heart, make you glow sweet and pliant in his hands until he manages to break you, wringing pleasure from you until you’re boneless and crying and he tells you that you’re everything, perfect and precious and presses kisses into every inch of your skin. Overabundant and giving, Sam holds your body to his with a love and gentleness you can nearly feel in your bones.

He kisses your mouth, open and sweetly and you let yourself fall further into his warm embrace.  

Bucky ends up carrying you to bed not long after, leaving you bare as he curls around you and makes sure you’re okay with gentle, murmuring words. You fall asleep as he drags a hand over your shoulder blades, sated and exhausted, and brimming with a warm, dewy happiness. 

 

Steve returns home much later into the night, drained and aching but, sighing when he finds you and Bucky asleep in his bed. Peaceful, sleep warm bodies that he presses himself to when he finally slides into bed. 

You raise your head, blinking blearily in the darkness, heavy with sleep. 

Steve’s smile is fond for you, though, with your messy hair and dreamy face, even as he murmurs, “I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to wake you.”   

“S’okay, Stevie.” You sigh, curl yourself closer to him, hooking your leg over his waist and promptly dropping back into the deep, soothing cradle of sleep.

Steve follows after you, holding you dearly, heart beating for you in the wide, warmth of his chest.

* * *

The morning brings your smiling lips, brushing kisses over Steve’s neck and shoulders to rouse him. You rub your cheek to his bearded one, before your lips settle into another flurry of kisses along his jaw. Steve cracks an eye open, a sleepy smile pulling at his lips as you squirm closer to him.

Bucky’s already gone, slipped from the bed at some point, probably set off to get a few things done this morning. 

But you’re there and still warm, naked skin soft and lovely against his. He stretches, reaching an arm above his head and your fingers thread through the hair along his chest. 

“‘Morning, Daddy.” You murmur, lashes tickling his cheek as you press your lips to his skin again. 

Steve smiles softly at you, curling an arm around your lower back, fingers drifting over the curves and lines of your body. “G’morning, doll.” 

Your eyes glitter in the peach light of morning, casting you in honey gold as your lips hitch upwards in a crooked smile that would’ve knocked Steve flat onto his back if he wasn’t already laying down. “Wanna spend the whole day in bed with me?” You almost purr, rolling onto his chest with ease. 

And it’s tempting, with the press of your body to his, the way you fit yourself so snugly to him, and with your fingers sliding over his neck, into his beard and then his thick hair. 

His hand drifts lower, down below the line of your lower back, hitching into the crook of your thigh and dragging your leg higher. “As tempting as that sounds,” Steve starts, “I don’t think I can. I’ve got work to do this afternoon.”

You pout, squirming against him, “You  _ always  _ have work.” You whine, burying your face in his neck. 

“I know,” Steve sighs, dragging a hand through your hair, “But I’ve got some time now.” He then murmurs, drawing you close, pulling you deeper into the muscles of his body. 

Your legs shift to straddle his waist, still pressed chest to chest. You can already feel him against your inner thigh; warm and smooth and hardening. It forces a breath out of you, makes you squirm in his lap, until your face is pressed to the crook of his neck. 

His hands are rough in texture but gentle and coaxing in touch, broad palm full of heat and tenderness. A hint of command as he guides you over him.

He reaches around, fingers digging into the skin of your inner thigh, before suddenly gliding through your center. 

You mewl desperately, flush rising because—

“Oh, you’re already so wet,” Steve murmurs, nudging his nose against your cheek. The pad of his finger moves slow and thoroughly, teasing out a sweet whine that is muffled in the crook of his neck. 

“You need me to fix that, honey?” 

You nod, digging your face deeper into the line of his shoulder, as if you could burrow and hide there, where he’s warm and smelling like cedarwood and soft cotton. Though your heart is tempestuous and quickening, you feel safe here, tucked against his broad chest and in the circle of his arms. 

You feel him shift more than you see him, breath catching in your throat as his fingers fall away and he gently, slowly pushes, prods until there’s a sweet sort of ache. You’re slick and weeping, burning, and your small fingers tighten in his hair, in the sheets until your body yields to him. 

You release that breath, sigh as he fills you completely, as if it’s where he belongs. Snug and tight, you nuzzle into his jaw and he turns his face into you for a kiss. 

Another sigh from him now, his hands settling on the curves and dipping lines of your waist, the rustle of bed sheets, then a soft keen from you. 

And then you’re moving over him, guided by his hands, so large and calloused and loving for you. Morning light, coral orange glow and heaven’s gold that spills over you, makes you seem angel, otherworldly in Steve’s eyes, like the first night he saw you. 

Serene eyes, hooded lids, peach stung lips that part for him. 

It’s slow; he forces you to stay languid and gentle even when you pout, shows you the kind of love that pulls you under it’s waves, the kind of pleasure that just makes you sing. 

He thinks he could spend the rest of his life like this; with you, the traces of Bucky still on your skin, so proud in the light of dawn. With you and with Bucky. 

He pulls you down for a harder kiss in the end, so desperate for you to know, to push and pack all of that adoration and love and tenderness for you down your throat, into your ribs, your heart so wildly beating. 

And you take it all eagerly, give back twice that and weep tears of happiness and joy and love, right onto the pale pink of his cheeks. 

 

You shower afterwards, let the steam and the water soothe any aching muscles. You can’t seem to part with Steve. 

You pout at him after being wrapped into a fluffy, downy towel by him before he reaches for one himself. 

“Why can’t you take a day off?” You ask with a flutter of your lashes.

Steve smiles slightly, a little amused, “I’m sorry, doll, it doesn’t work like that.”  

“Why not? You’re the boss, aren’t you?”

Steve does laugh now, soft, a breath, “Yeah, but if anything, that means I have more responsibilities to take care of.” 

You lean up onto your toes, press the line of your body to his pointedly, and give him your wide, loving eyes that you know he has a hard time denying. You wrap your arms around his neck sweetly, “Stevie,” You sigh lightly, blossom soft and silky. “Stay home with me?” 

Steve’s eyes darken a fraction, like maybe he will, wars with himself, before ultimately detangling you from him. “That won’t work today, baby.” 

You rock back down onto your heels, shoulders slumping. 

And then you pout, petulant, spoiled girl that’s always gotten her way, never really been told no by them before--

He touches your cheek, “Why don’t you invite Wanda over?” He suggests, placating and encouraging, “Spend the day by the pool. Sam will be around to keep an eye out on you, too.” 

You huff lightly, despite it sounding like a swell idea. And you  _ adore  _ Sam a great deal. “ _ Fine,”  _ You reply just to be a brat, though.

Steve’s lips lift into the barest hint of a smirk, “Easy on the attitude with me, princess.” He warns lightly, before adding, “I’ll be home briefly before your shift tonight.”

Then he kisses your cheek, lips still warm and soft, before he disappears from the bathroom to finish getting ready for his day. You let loose a breath, glance at your reflection in the mirror which glitters back at you with shining, happy eyes. You’re near glowing, can practically feel it bursting forth from within you.  

You let yourself smile, before bounding off to go phone Wanda.

* * *

Wanda and you lazily drape yourselves over one of the lounge chairs by the pool, afternoon sun spilling over you warmly. You’re both pressed close to fit onto one chair; she’s on her stomach beside you, feet languidly kicking in the air. You’re on your back, in your little, white swimsuit. A scoop neck that bares your chest to the sun, then a little, frilly skirt as the bottoms, allowing your legs to tan under the sun, too. 

Wanda’s in a similar one, but hers is black, the neckline dipping into a vee, and her skirt is trimmed with red and white. Her pale, porcelain skin is already beginning to pinken, but it’s sweet and you can tell she’s content in the sun beside you, too relaxed and happy to move. 

Though, she does pick her head up from her folded arms to look at you. “Are you living here now?” She asks, and the ends of her hair tickle your neck, your cheek.

You flutter your eyes to her, squinting in the sun for a moment before settling on her. “Not technically, I suppose.” You answer, then bite your lip in thought. 

Her eyes follow the movement, then return to yours. 

“But I spend much of my time here now.” You press on, “Bucky and Steve want me here, with Sam or Natasha or them. For my protection, I guess.” 

You don’t know if that’s something to be more concerned about, something that might make Wanda worry, but you speak openly with her anyways. You fear little right now, tucked away in their garden, a gem they’ve hidden and protected. 

Wanda hums a moment, eyes dancing in the sun. Her fingers, nimble and soft, skim over your shoulder as she draws a languid, small pattern into your skin. It tickles, but you don’t dare move, tilt your chin slightly to be closer. Just as she sighs, “It’s beautiful here. Like a dream.”

You nod, letting your eyes shut again as her fingers trail over your collarbones, touch growing bolder, wider, but still so soft and fluttering. She’s a dream. 

You can hear the birds twinkling in the distance, the soft lap of water from the glittering pool, Wanda’s small breaths. It’s so soothing, so lovely that you feel heavy and heady with it. The sun, Wanda’s touch, the sparkling world around you.

“Do you love them?” Wanda breathes and you open your eyes to her once more. 

And you smile, unrestrained and vibrant, “I feel like I’m in love with everyone and everything lately.” 

“With me?” Wanda asks, a hint of a mischievous smile gracing her lips. It’s beguiling, enamoring, that curve of her cherry lips--

“Yes, of course with you!” You laugh, ducking your face closer to hers, and she laughs with you, soft, sighing giggles. You reach out with seeking fingers, brush a strand of her hair from her face, “You’re my dearest, Wanda.” 

Wanda smiles as if she’s won something, and bathed in sunlight, she is ethereal and glistening. Her fingers touch your neck, knuckle gliding along your jaw. “And you are mine, darling.” She exhales happily, before leaning forward and brushing a kiss to your sun-warmed cheek. 

And that is how you spend the afternoon, pressed close and talking happily together, teasing each other and sharing secrets. 

She pulls you into the glittering, blue diamond pool at one point, and you shriek before you hit the water. It’s crisp and cool, but refreshing, reenergizing after lazing in the sun. You splash and giggle and laugh with each other, young and glistening in the water. Naiads, mythical girls, flushed with joy and mischief. You wrap your arms around each other, press wet cheeks together and throw your heads back and laugh and shout and sing silly. 

And when you get out, you return to the same lounge chair, pressed close again and dozing under the sun once more, speaking frequently, touching languidly. 

Steve returns as the afternoon bruises into evening, just as he promised, and he steps outside to greet the pair of you. Wanda is straddling your waist, tickling you until you’re breathless, giggling like mad girls when he emerges. You both pause, laughter quieting as you twist your heads to look. 

“Havin’ fun out here?” He asks with a fond smile, moving to sit at the end of the lounge chair beside the both of you.

“Yeah,” You tell him with a smile, sitting up beneath Wanda slightly, “It’s been perfect.” 

“Seems like it.” Steve responds, just as his eyes catch Wanda’s, who's still firmly seated atop you. She makes no indication of moving. 

“Hi, Steve.” She says with her own smile, as if she has a secret.

“Hi ya, Wanda. How’ve you been?”

“Very well.” She muses back, her smiling eyes falling back over you, bewitching and lovely. “I always love keeping your girl company.” 

“I can see that,” Steve replies, almost dryly, but there’s still a glitter of amusement in his blue, blue eyes. Wanda and you share a smile, another slight giggle, before she finally eases off of you and allows you up. 

Though when you sit up beside her, you wrap your arms around her as you face Steve, draping your arms over her small form. She brushes her cheek to yours, smitten and affectionaley. 

You watch the way Steve’s eyes track the pair of you, skimming over the lines of your girl soft bodies, damp swimsuits clinging to your curves. His eyes darken a fraction, tongue darting out against the pink of his bottom lip. He almost looks--

“Where’s Bucky?” You ask to try and stop a flush from overcoming you, “Is he home, too?”

Steve shakes his head, as if clearing his head, and also to answer you. “No, not yet. I’m going to meet up with him soon, and we’ll then pick you up from the Valkyrie after.” 

“Okay,” You sigh dreamily against Wanda’s neck, turning your face there and smiling against her skin. 

She reaches to touch your cheek, “We should leave soon for the Valkyrie.” And then she gains an impish smile, “Otherwise Natasha will scold us for being late.” 

“Can’t have that.” Steve agrees with a gentle smile and you blink at him slowly from Wanda’s neck. He gazes back with affection, despite the undercurrent of heat seeping into his eyes. To distract himself from the enthralling image of you, pressing yourself so close to Wanda, so sweet and joyful, he glances down at his wrist watch. 

He lets loose a sigh, “I need to be leaving soon.” And he moves to stand, stretching upwards with long arms and a sturdy, muscled torso. “I’ll see you after your show tonight, dear.” He then adds, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to your cheek, but you turn your face to his and catch his lips in a sound kiss.

Wanda giggles mischievously. It’s brief and fleeting and soft. His lips are warm. When he pulls back, you lean in quickly and snag another kiss to his cheek, just as Wanda presses a kiss to his other with a curling smile.

Steve’s brows raise as you both laugh together,’ light twinkling sounds that are like music to his ears. 

“Nice seeing you, Steve.” Wanda tells him with her wide, glittering eyes and Cheshire smile. 

“Bye, Daddy.” You hum sweetly and a grin, dumb and in love and full blooming strikes his features like lightning. 

“Bye, honey.” He says, already excited to return to you, “Bye, Wanda.” 

And he leaves the pair of you, giggling and light hearted and dizzy with the sun and each other. 

* * *

Just as promised, Steve and Bucky wait backstage for you after your last performance is finished, caught in the blue, shadow light of the theatre as you bound over to them. You launch yourself into Bucky’s arms first, who laughs as he wraps his arms tight to you and lifts you clear off the ground. His lips, warm and seeking, find your cheeks almost immediately.

You giggle as he presses them to you eagerly. 

“Missed me all day?” He asks and you shriek a little as his fingers wiggle and tickle your sides playfully. 

“Yeah, ‘course I did. You’re always so busy.” You respond into the thick muscle of his shoulder. When he settles you back onto your feet, you turn and jump up onto your toes to greet Steve in a brief, fluttering kiss. 

Steve steadies you with a huff of laughter, “Easy, doll.” He murmurs, the safety of his broad palm on your lower back heavy and warm. You lean into him, nearly let all your weight go to press against the solid form of his body. 

“We’re thinkin’ about grabbing a bite, princess, how’s that sound?” Bucky asks, fingers skimming your waist, the curve of your side. 

“Sounds swell, Bucky.” You respond with a flutter of your lashes, a tilt of your head towards his and naturally he leans in, kisses the swell of your cheek before he takes your hand and guides out of the speakeasy and into the balmy night. 

Sweet, dark air. Fragrant and rich and warm, the city is alive and thrumming on a beautiful night with the flowers wide and blooming underneath the clear moon and darling stars. You sing to yourself, to Bucky and Steve on the way, happy and humming and silly. 

Steve smiles sweet when you serenade him teasingly. Calls you songbird, starlet, little dove.

Bucky laughs when you twirl in his arms on the sidewalk playfully, dress flaring and glittering wide beneath pale streetlights like the whole world is your stage. He calls you canary, calls you moonbeam and pearl. 

The restaurant they guide you to is a hole in the wall type of joint; open all hours, hidden away because they serve alcohol- wine house made in basements, the way they do back in Italy- with some of the finest food in all the city. Bucky and Steve know the owner, like they seem to everywhere. Their connections are far reaching and wide. They get special treatment; treated like Kings, royalty of the streets, and the owner, Paulo, whose wide and jolly and loud with his heavily Italian accented English. He calls you  _ bellissima  _ and makes you giggle under candlelight.

“What’s a gem like you running around with these dogs, huh?” He teases with a smile, “They better be good to you!” 

“They’re very good to me.” You respond earnestly, leaning into Bucky’s side as his hand finds the small, sensitive spot of your lower back. He strokes until you sigh dreamily.

“Seems like it, if they’re bringing you to Paulo for a meal!” 

And you all laugh, until his wife, Donna is brought out to meet you, too. And she fusses and gushes over you, pinches your smiling cheeks and eyes the boys; warns them about treating you right. Keeping you safe. 

Bucky and Steve, their eyes twinkling in fondness, reply respectfully with “yes, ma’am”s and bows of their head. It makes you admire them tenfold; for two of the supposed most powerful and feared men in the city, maybe the state, they seem to have good and strong relationships with everyone. People seem to love them, look up to them not out of trembling fear, but genuine adoration. 

You’re seated in a back corner, tucked away and in a booth. The gold of candles is warm and flickering in the dim lighting of the restaurant; it’s cavernous, underground. There are no windows, but it’s cozy, almost. It’s warm and glowing and full of heavy, mouth-watering scent of herbs and meats and spices. 

Plum dark wine is brought to your table, split among you until you’re light headed and flushed warm. Rich cheeses, salty meats, and herbed olive oil that drips down your chin is given to you. Bucky swipes it away with his thumb and a roguish smile. There’s a love and an ease between you three, conversation that does or doesn’t flow is comfortable and amiable. 

Your first meal isn’t even brought out when there is a commotion towards the front of the restaurant, thought; Paulo’s voice gains an edge, lacks the good nature he greeted you with. Donna ushers some of the wait staff in the back. Once happy and content customers now pale in worry, eyes darting down or away or tracking too tightly onto the group that arrives. 

“We got company, Steve.” Bucky says, just as Paulo declares he  _ doesn’t want any trouble,  _ but he’s easily brushed aside and the man who replaces him is cold and imposing. A statue of a man; blond hair streaked with silver, dark, probing eyes, and a perfect posture. Ice fills you, all that warmth suddenly gone from you as if a north wind had pushed into the room and stricken you.

Steve eases in front of you slightly, an edge of his shoulder in front of you and quickly, you duck behind him, your small hand wrapping around the muscle of his broad bicep. You peak over his shoulder, catch another man shouldering his way over to you three.

He’s much more familiar. The man Natasha had pulled you from; Rumlow. He looks more menacing now, somehow, maybe it’s the shadows of the candlelight falling over his features, turning him into a creature of that darkness. Or maybe it’s simply that he’s also followed by others, piercing eyes and outlines of guns at their hips. 

The once romantic and charming atmosphere is replaced with something ghoulish, your nerves prickling in worry. A hush has gathered, and no matter how much other patrons pretend not to watch these newcomers approach your table, all eyes and attention are on you. 

Steve stands, rising to the full, towering height of him. He’s intimidating, with the way his face hardens in a way you’ve never seen it before. His shoulders roll back, as if he’s ready for a brawl. 

“No need to stand,” The elder man states diplomatically, “We’ll be quick.” 

And with barely a glance, one of his henchmen is hustling him a chair, sliding it on the open side of the table and across from Steve. He slides into it with poise and grace, whereas Rumlow comes to stand beside him.

“Well,” He hums when his eyes fall to you, voice slithering around you, “Look who it is. The little doll from the speakeasy that your Widow was so keen on keeping away from me.” 

And now the blond man turns his own frigid, dark eyes on you. You shrink back into the booth, shoulders curling inwards. “Ah,” He exhales as if he’s realized something quite important, “The one this city is so enamored with.” 

He tilts his head, peers deeper at you and you turn your profile to him, lashes fluttering against your cheek as if that will somehow shield you from his gaze. Bucky’s hands clench into a tight, balled fist with all the attention suddenly on you. You can feel the coil of his thick muscles, agitation in his shoulders, the way he might just bare his teeth at the next wrong word; aggravated, territorial wolf ready to pounce.  

Steve, though, is rather calm. Still and calm and hard. 

“My apologies,” Continues the man, “Where are my manners?” And he extends his hand to you across the table in offering;

“I’m Alexander Pierce.” 

The name sinks down deep into you, settles into you the way stones settle in the bottom of rivers, dragging down all they’re attached to. 

Another notorious mob boss, one that isn’t as adored as Bucky or Steve. Known for crooked, cruel darkness, the name only uttered out of fear. Your heart pounds with the revelation, you can feel it, deep and thundering in the pit of your chest. 

You glance outwards, catch all of his men milling around, with their lithe bodies and loaded, heavy guns tucked at their hips. 

And you become keenly, horribly aware of the danger you’re in; like staring down the unhinged, dripping jaws of a predator, ready and waiting to bite.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An argument is had, deeper feelings are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!! sorry it took a hot minute to get this chapter out, i've been busy with the end of the semester coming up, but hopefully will have more time to write soon! let me know what you think of this chapter!!  
> also happy thanksgiving to those of you in the states!

“I don’t believe we’ve met yet.” 

Alexander’s voice is smooth and airy and you lift your eyes to find his eyes which are glued to your face with an eerie curiosity. As if he has found a jewel or gem, something interesting and incredible; something that he can use and twist and break. 

Bucky grows tense beside you. 

You sit up, though, tilt your chin up slightly and try to find your pride as you stare down the notorious Alexander Pierce. You try to find a piece of that bravado you bring on stage every night; the one that caught Natasha’s attention, that enamored Bucky and Steve and half of New York. 

The courage that a mobster’s girlfriend might have. 

You give him your name through hooded, haughty eyes. Your lashes curl against your cheek which are soft and rosy in the candlelight. Your hair is curled loosely, tousled from the stage and you’re still smelling like roses and violets; flowers that were gifted to you after your performance. You offer your hand to Pierce as if you are a princess to be revered, royalty to be looked upon with adoration and respect. Pierce places a kiss to your knuckles, a twinkle in his eyes as he assesses you closer. 

“You’re as beguiling as everyone says you are.” Alexander comments, but the way he’s gazing you is more akin to grotesque fascination rather than genuine attention. 

You withdraw your hand daintily, “Thank you.” 

“What do you want, Pierce?” Bucky snaps suddenly, the low timbre of his voice a warning, a trace of a growl around the edges.

“Always so impatient, Mr. Barnes.” 

“Pierce,” Steve says, more evenly, but sterner, “What do you want?” 

“Only to talk.” He says easily, settling back into his chair a little more as if he owns the place, as if he is quite comfortable.

“Then why’d you bring half your crew?” Bucky insists darkly, eyes flitting out to him. 

“Precaution, is all. Never sure with you two.” He comments lightly, as if this is an easily fixed issue. “Now,” And he claps his hands together, “Let’s get down to business, shall we, gentlemen?”

You blink between them.

“Does she know anything?” Rumlow asks suddenly instead. Pierce looks briefly irritated, but his features are schooled so quickly, you wonder if you imagined it. 

“No,” Bucky says quickly, “She’s totally in the dark.”

Pierce narrows his eyes, puckers his lips, “That so?”

“That’s so.” Steve says firmly. And then he turns to you, ducks his face closer to yours and says, “Why don’t you head to the ladies room for a moment, huh?” 

Your eyes widen in sudden surprise and fear-- he’s  _ not _ serious, is he? You search his face wildly for a moment, and find that  _ he is _ . Your breath comes in quicker, a little more rapid. He’d really leave you alone?

“Steve,” You almost beg. 

“Go on,” Steve urges, gentler, hand on your waist to ease you past him and out the booth. 

Pierce watches on a little too closely. When you stand on shaking legs, trying to straighten your back, bring your breath in deep, all eyes are on you. It’s almost as if you can feel the warmth of stage lights, the glare burning into you there and then. So you school your features again and glide forward surprisingly well.

Faintly, you hear Pierce muse, “So she really is in the dark, then.”

A woman of Pierce’s follows after you, seemingly casual but she makes your teeth grind. When you enter the bathroom, it is eerily quiet. The long, old mirrors are prettily distressed and your reflection shimmers before your eyes. 

You force yourself into being calmer, even as the door slams shut behind you two. 

You pretend to fix your makeup, your fingers are shaking though, a slight tremble that betrays your disguised face. 

The woman leans against the wall casually, watching you like a hawk. 

You flutter your lashes innocently, “I like your trousers.” You tell her, trying to gauge her, to express your naivete. 

She quirks a brow as you rattle on, “I wish I could pull off trousers like that.” 

She doesn’t give you a response, but looks rather amused with you, or perhaps annoyed that she’s been given the duty of watching someone so asinine. Your insignificance is both a little insulting and suddenly comforting. You gain a swell of bravery, turn back towards the mirror to play with your hair, humming a little tune to yourself. 

You make yourself wide eyed and silly and nothing like her. Ditzy and blind about everything; which isn’t a lie, in some ways. Steve and Bucky have let you in on so little in regards to business. They keep you safely tucked away in their garden, in their house on top of a hill, far from the reaches of intel and mobs and danger.

Another woman suddenly steps into the restroom, glances between you two. You keep humming to yourself, a little flitting tune that makes you seem distracted as you push and pull at your hair in the mirror. 

You don’t even glance at them as one says to the other, “Everyone’s in place, interceptions ready. We’ve gotta go.” 

And just like that, she disappears, leaving you without a thought. You’re not a threat, just a girl caught up with the wrong crowd. 

You give yourself a moment, drop the tune, inhale sharply. Whatever was intercepted is likely important, likely something Steve and Bucky need to know, but when you glance back out at the tables, Pierce still sits comfortably.

You return to the bathroom, ring your hands and try to breathe. You ease through your thoughts and try to unravel a plan. Is it too long to wait until Pierce is gone to tell them? It feels it, the time tick, tick, ticking by too quickly.

You worry your lip, think harder. Could you tell them secretly? Would it matter if you could? What would they do when they’re outmanned and outgunned?

You wish you could just tell Natasha or-- or Sam.

And like lightning your plan comes all at once, in a great strike of heat and spark. 

You force yourself not to rush out of the bathroom, glide back towards the kitchen where Donna had ushered many of the staff back. She welcomes you back there with open arms, hushing and cooing at you about what  _ brutes _ they are, how she wants you to stay back here until they’re gone. You sniffle and agree, but only to ask your next question;

“Do you have a telephone, perhaps?”

She looks at you quizzically for a heartbeat, but then nods, “Yes, yes, in the back office.” And she points you down a hallway. 

“May I use it? I’d like to call my sister. She always knows how to calm me down.” 

Few can deny your wide eyes and in moments, you find yourself in the small, back office. The telephone is mounted on the wall and Donna shuts the door behind her, leaving you alone. 

You rush towards it, dial for operator, and rush to answer him so he can connect you to the mansion and  _ beg  _ for someone to answer. For a fearsome, horrible moment you fear the worst. But then it’s Sam’s smoothe, warm voice--

“Sam!” You gasp into the phone.

“Hey honey, what’s going on?”

“Alexander Pierce is here.” You respond hushed and quickly, “And I caught word of some of his henchmen-- they’re intercepting something. I don’t know what, and I can’t warn Steve or Bucky right now.” 

Sam goes deathly silent for a moment. 

“Sam?” You ask, voice breaking, “Sam, do you know what they’re talking about?”

“Yeah,” He says then and his voice has gone hard, too, “Yeah, I do.” And then, “Are you safe? Do you need me?”

“I-I’m safe. We’re really outnumbered but he’s just-- Pierce is just talking to them.” 

Sam’s breath is a shaky exhale, “I think he’s distracting them. You stay where you are, okay? Don’t get involved with this.” 

“O-okay.” 

“Don’t worry, I’ll do something about all this. Just hang on.” Sam promises fiercely, and then as soon as the conversation had started, it’s over. Your heart is throbbing, a fierce pulse in your chest but-- but you had to have done something, didn't you?

Pierce leaves in fifteen minutes. 

When you return to Steve and Bucky’s sides, they are tense and abrasive. But Steve looks you over with concern. He cradles your cheek with delicacy, his eyes a flurry over your features, your body. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, blue eyes blazing. 

You nod into his hands, leaning in to the comfort. “I called Sam, after I heard one of Pierce’s girls say that they were ready to intercept something—“

Bucky and Steve look at each other sharply, Steve’s hands falling from your face. Evidently, they know what it is that Pierce would be intercepting. You can see it in the flood of worry or anger on their features. Bucky curses before Steve looks back at you.

“Wait, you called Sam, sweetheart?”

You nod quickly, “I figured it was important to know so I went to the back and said I had to call my sister and I called Sam.” 

Bucky’s brows quirk upward and he regards you with surprise, a little astonishment, “You lied like that? Just off the top of your head?”

You nod again, slowly, “I couldn’t tell you, so I assumed I should tell Sam.” You look between them, your eyes fluttering back and forth, “What were they talking about intercepting?”

Another slow look is shared between them, silent. 

“Honey,” Steve starts, placating and soft and you  _ know  _ he won’t tell you. Not with his voice like that, all gentle and coaxing, a way to get you to his side before he’s even said no. Usually, it serves to make you melt, but this time, it makes you harden. You jerk away from his touch, tilt your chin up and try not to pout at him. 

“I want to know.” You say suddenly, and the moment you do, you realize how  _ much _ you want to know. You realize your own naïveté, the way they’d coddled and hid you from everything and you’re not  _ angry— _

You’re not angry yet.  

You’ve simply never thought to ask. You’ve never been engulfed in it, in this life of criminals and mobsters and crime. You’ve been kept tucked away in soft, linen beds and in rosy, summer damp gardens. Should you be angry at them? 

You blink hard, suck in a sharp breath. 

“I want to know everything, I don’t like being in the dark anymore.” You say and your voice is firm, new to even your own ears. 

Steve shakes his head, “It just isn’t safe--” He starts gently, reaching for your hand now.

You pull away again, adamant, your cheeks flushing with color, “After tonight, don’t you think it’s more dangerous if I don’t know?” You glance good Bucky to gauge his reaction, “What if I’m approached alone? Or without you? What am I supposed to do?” 

Steve and Bucky are quiet for a moment. 

It’s Bucky who says, “We didn’t want to involve you in all this.” 

And you say, with your nose turned up, perhaps a little too coldly, “Then you should have never started dating me.”

Steve’s eyes flare like a lightning strike; there’s an argument in them, you can see it brewing. There’s some hurt, too, swirling in the brightness of them. And you know he’s stubborn, you know this is going to lead to your first  _ real  _ argument. Perhaps you should be more scared, perhaps less challenging, but you meet Steve’s eyes head on and don’t falter.

“We’re not talking about this here.” Steve says sternly, as if to scold you. 

“Fine,” You respond, insolent and breezy, as you pick up your purse and ease out of the booth seamlessly. You glide towards the door with your chin up, expecting them to follow without another word.

It’s bratty, you know this. But it’s also to preserve your own images. You won’t argue with them in public, you won’t let rumors spread. Especially when, recently, every other column in the newspaper is about you. Everyone has an opinion on you, condemning you or loving you, judging you or adoring you. And Steve’s right, you shouldn’t speak about this here, but he’s made you testy with the burning look in his eyes and the hard-set jaw. 

So you turn your back on them and walk to the car with elegance and briskness, your heels clicking against the stone, a swish in your hips. 

Bucky and Steve share another look, longer this time. A silent conversation. Bucky is the first to move, jogging to catch up to you. 

The car ride home is quiet and you hang your head off the side in the back, cheek pressed to your arm, the breeze tangling in your hair. 

You wonder if ignorance really is bliss, and if it  _ is _ , why do you want to leave it so badly? 

* * *

When you arrive back to the mansion, Sam and Natasha are there. In fact, Sam sweeps you up into his arms with a broad smile. The air leaves your lungs just as he praises, “There’s the heroine of the hour!” 

He spins you around and because of your morose mood you can’t find it in yourself to smile, but you do throw your arms around him and bury your face in his neck. You huff lightly, just as he sets you down on your feet. He’s still got you around the waist, strong and sweet, as Bucky asks over your head;

“So you stopped them, then?” 

“Hell yeah we did.” Sam says, chest swelling with pride. And then he pulls away to look at you, to grasp your chin, “All because of your wits, princess.” 

He finally takes in your sullen features, the way your lips are pinched into a pout. “What’s a matter, huh?” He asks then, dropping his voice for you so it settles warmly into your chest, along the column of your spine. “Pierce scare you?” 

You shake your head, “Not really.” 

“Rumlow?” Natasha asks then, eyeing you. 

You scoff lightly, step away from Sam and glide past them to the velvet settee, sink down upon with another little huff, moving to pull your shoes right off. 

“Someone’s gotten awfully brave after one encounter.” Steve says and there’s a cutting edge to his voice that makes you bristle, it’s sharp and if you’re not careful, you’ll cut yourself on it. You tense, glance at him over your shoulders as you begin to take out your earings.

“I’ve met Rumlow before.” You counter, letting the pearls drop into your open palm like dew drops. 

“And you cowered behind Natasha the whole time.” Steve shoots back and you flush with anger and a tinge of embarrassment, the heat prickling uncomfortably at your neck. Much to your irritation, bitter tears spring to your eyes. Pressure builds inside of you. But you refuse to let it out this time, take a deep, rushed breath to try and keep it all carefully in the back of your throat. 

“Well, that’s what I’m supposed to do, isn’t it? Cower behind everyone.” You snap back, and this time your voice is thick with emotion, “Maybe I should’ve cowered tonight, Steve, and then your--” 

You don’t even know what it is you managed to help save. You swallow back your frustration, all the pressure in you building. 

“ _ Whatever--  _ would’ve been intercepted.” You bite out, scrub angrily at your cheek when a silken tear slips free. 

Bucky moves to you now, moves to sit beside you, “A shipment of booze. A big one that would’ve hurt business badly if it would’ve been taken from us.” He supplies, and he lays his arm across the back of the settee, it hovers behind you, a pressure at your back. He doesn't touch you, but leans close and drops near you. 

You try to ignore him, begin stripping off your gloves angrily to distract yourself from his probing eyes. You toss them to the floor. And then, unashamed, you move to your stockings, bending over and hitching your dress up to roll them down from your legs quickly. You feel suddenly constricted in all your clothes and jewels and pins. 

“You did good tonight, sweetheart.” Bucky murmurs, fingers skimming the bare skin of your shoulders.

You aren’t ready to give in to him yet, though. Even if a part of you longs to lay your head against his chest, feel the thud of his heart beneath your cheek. Let him wrap you up in his arms, curl you into his lap. But you’re being stubborn, too.

“If I did so well, why won’t you tell me anything?” You ask, a hiss of breath between your teeth as you toss your stockings to the floor, too. 

“I told you this would happen eventually.” Natasha muses aloud, leaning against the wall casually, her cat eyes following the three of you. Steve throws her a glare before moving. 

“It’s dangerous.” Steve says firmly, finally coming to your other side. “And you know it.” 

Your eyes flash, shimmering with tears and your temper. “What are you gonna do, Steve? Keep me here forever?” 

“You  _ know  _ I don’t keep you here.” 

“Might as well. I know it’s what you want, keeping me all helpless and tucked away here.” You stand suddenly, your emotions bubbling. The pressure in you mounts, presses at your eyes and throat and heart. 

“We’re trying to keep you  _ safe.”  _ Steve grinds back--

 And you shouldn’t say it, but you’re upset and maybe your adrenaline is still burning through you like a candle burns a wick and the words burst forth from your lips like a stray bird being loosened from a cage; 

“I’m just someone to keep your bed warm! Entertain you for awhile. I’m your little toy to protect, isn’t that right?” You seeth, a few tears suddenly dripping onto your cheeks, making them dewy and glittering in the low light. You know you’re getting irrational now, you know you’re throwing a tantrum, but you can’t stop it now. Not when it’s spilled over and out of you, crybaby girl, trying to make all the noise in the world, drown the whole place in your tears. Until the chandelier sinks and everything turns blue and bubbly and muted.  

So you turn away, glance over your shoulder, “I’ll be in your bed, then!” You tell Steve, raising your voice, suddenly reaching to grasp at your dress and peel it right off your body. You shuck it off and let it drop to the floor as you head down the hallway towards the bedroom, the beads clatter and skitter across the marble floor as some burst free from the fabric, “Since all I am is some dame on your arm!” 

You’re down to your silk slip now, the fabric hanging high on your thighs. “Some floozy that doesn’t know anything!” You yell because it hurts, because it feels like they don’t trust you, because--

Because you want more, still. You don’t want to be dumb and clueless anymore, you don’t want to look foolish or be left in the dark to wonder and grasp at God knows what. Even more, you want to  _ help  _ them _.  _

You want to be apart of this, apart of  _ them,  _ fully and without constraints. 

“Get back over here!” Steve says after you, but you slam the door to the bedroom before he can reach you.

It rattles on its hinges, the sound echoing inside of you, making your heart tremble, too.  You throw yourself down onto the bed, grab a pillow to bury your face in and yell and cry until you’re hoarse. 

Until you fall asleep, curled around the pillow, around yourself, all lonesome on a too-big bed. 

* * *

You don’t rise easily in the morning, linger in the sheets that smell of Bucky and Steve. You turn inward, half-embarrassed, and half too prideful to be the first to appear. You gnaw on your bottom lip, twist and turn and roll around restlessly until there is a knock on the door. The sun is pale and muted by the curtains. 

Quietly, you slip from bed, pad over to the door and open it. 

Bucky stands before you, dark hair tousled, and in his boxers. He’s bare chested and sleepy-eyed; he looks warm and like you want to drag him to bed. 

“Can I come in?” He asks, voice rough and soft.

You let the door swing open wider, turning from him to sit upon the bed once more. 

“Where’s Steve?” You ask, since it was the two of you that had really started the spark and caught flame. 

“On a run.” Bucky answers, and he tentatively sits beside you on the bed. You fiddle with the end of your slip, which you hadn’t changed out of before drifting off to sleep the previous night. Your fingers twist and turn in the fabric, focusing on anything but him.

The silence that becomes thick and tight between you two is broken by him again, “Steve thinks, the less you know, the less our enemies will be interested in you.” Bucky explains gently, watches you closely as you tense again. “We’re trying to keep you safe.” 

“Safety isn’t a cage.” 

“Do we cage you?” Bucky asks quietly, brows pulling together and he’s earnest and worried, “Do you not like it here?” 

You deflate slightly at his tone, at the care he gazes at you with, “No,” You say lightly, “No, I love it here.” You admit, your eyes falling away from his face and to your hands. “I just-- I want to be apart of this, too.” 

Bucky lets out a slow breath, “We don’t want to risk you, sweetheart.” He shakes his head, “If anything happened to you because of us--” 

“It isn’t your choice to make, though.” You tell him, soft, but your tone is firm, and you reach out to him finally, touch his face with seeking, cold little finger tips. “I should know what I’m getting myself into.” 

“I know, but--” 

“Bucky.” You say, “This is my choice.” 

Bucky loosens another breath, but this time you can tell that he knows what you say is true. He’s giving in, you can see it in his eyes, in the slightly fond curl of his lips as he says, “You’re gonna give Stevie a run for his money when it comes to stubbornness.” 

You give him a small, sheepish smile back, “Someone’s gotta.” You say and Bucky surprises you with a warm, rumbling laugh. 

“C’mere, doll.” He murmurs and then you’re being pulled into his warm lap, twining your arms around his neck and shoulders. He noses at your neck, at your collar bones, inhales deep and fits you close to him. As if he missed you dearly and sorely, as if it hadn’t been a night but a week. 

“You know you mean the world to Stevie and I, right?” He then says into your hair, the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “You know we don’t think of you as—“ 

“I know.” You respond on a breath, nudging your nose against his cheek. “I only said those things because I was angry.” You admit, embarrassed and shy, burying yourself in Bucky’s arms. He rubs at your back, your neck, let’s you stay hidden in the warmth of his bare skin. 

Bucky leans away slightly, only to snag your lips in a slow, light kiss. It’s soft, slightly teasing, and full of love and forgiveness and an apology. And you return it, force him to deepen it and tighten your arms around him. You can feel a smile on his lips at your sudden eagerness, the way his hand slides along your shoulders, pulling you that much closer.

You kiss languid and sweet, trying to get rid of the sting from the previous night. Bucky tangles a hand in your hair, rolls your hips against his. 

There’s a creek at the door, a shuffle of feet. You pull away from Bucky’s lips, and he pushes his nose and lips to your neck, in the curtain of your hair as you turn to look over your shoulder. 

Steve stands in the doorway, in shorts and a t-shirt. His skin is flushed and damp with sweat, his hair disheveled, too. Your eyes clash with his for a heartbeat, before you turn back into Bucky’s shoulder and bury your face there. You huff into his shoulder, still a little sore after last night, 

You hear more than you see Steve step towards you two, a little tentative, but he eventually stands behind you. Bucky faces him and you think there’s a shared, silent conversation before Steve’s hand gently nestled into your hair.

He cards through it lightly, delicately, working his way down from the crown of your head to the ends. You try not to sink into the touch, to lean back and bask in it. 

After a moment, he says, “I’m sorry about last night.” 

“S’okay.” You mumble into Bucky’s neck, still clinging to him. You feel childish, feel needy and vulnerable somehow. You should apologize, too. Your pride has a hard time going down, but you swallow it and add, “I’m sorry, too.” 

“It’s okay.” Steve says softly, “You were right, in ways. I only wanted to keep you safe and happy and free here.” Steve admits, “I just—“ 

And he pauses, swallows his fear, settles his hand into the nape of your neck. You think you can hear his heart beating, like a little drum. His mouth opens, closes, opens again;

“I love you. And I got scared last night.” 

You pick your head up finally from Bucky’s shoulder, heart soaring or dropping or stuttering. You fill with the light of dawn, the peach burst of sweetness, the warmth of honeyed summer, thick and heady with it. 

You fill with nervous, twisting butterflies that burst through you. As if they might break free from your ribs and flit about the room. 

Your lashes flutter as you look back up at Steve, arch your back and gaze at him over your shoulder. The morning is hazy and gauzy white through the curtains. You let him cradle your skull with a broad hand, let him sink his hand deep into your hair at the nape of your neck, where you’re vulnerable and precious.

“Steve,” You breathe, and his fingers flex in your hair, like they might tighten, but he stays gentle. You turn slightly, reach out to him, snag his t-shirt to yank him down to you. 

His lips meet yours in a messy sort of desperate kiss, the clink of teeth, the harsh breath that pulls from his lungs and seems to fill yours. You try to steady yourself by grasping Bucky’s shoulder, your other hand balled into a fist of Steve’s shirt. 

His hand tightens in your hair, tilts your head up to open your lips further to him. Bucky’s warm mouth touches your neck, pulls a sweet whine right from the pit of you.

When you pull away, breathless, chest rising and falling against Bucky’s, you stay close to Steve. Keep your eyes shut a moment; as if you could hold this moment in the dearest, softest part of you. As if you could cradle it forever in the fire bloom of your heart. Your eyes open to Steve’s and there are tears there, shining and new and tender.

So you tell him, with all your adoration and love and ache for him wrapped around the petal-soft words;

“I love you, too.” 

His lips come down on yours again, harsher this time, with a violent sort of need. A desperate love, the kind that is raw and open and vulnerable, trembling and weak and horrified and elated. He possesses you and you let him, let him pull your silk slip from your body. Let Bucky rid you of panties until all you are is naked and soft between them. A flower unfurled, bare and lovely and flushed.

When Steve lets you breathe again, you let your lips curl upwards into a mischievous little smile, and your eyes gleaming with new love, “Does that mean you’ll tell me everything, then?” You ask and it’s cheeky, it’s warm, it makes Bucky laugh into your chest. “You’ll let me in?” 

Steve can’t help but smile at you, against your cheek, dragging to the nape of your neck. “Yeah,” He says, “Yeah, but we’ll talk about it later.” He husks and his hand curls around your shoulder, pushes you deep into Bucky, until he has to lay back and send you down with him, with you on his chest. 

Bucky hitches your leg up around his waist, fingers curling into your thigh. You lean into him, nuzzle into his neck with flaming cheeks. 

He leaves you open to Steve, kisses you hard when Steve slides fingers against where you’ve gotten warm and aching. Bucky drinks down all your cries eagerly, his hands rough on the dips and curves of you, fingers digging into skin. 

Steve undresses, slides himself against your core, the crown of him catching, gliding through the wetness. And he takes you like that, pushes inside and there’s an ache still, so you bite down on Bucky’s shoulder and whimper. He hushes you, rubbing his cheek to yours. Steve doesn’t give you time to adjust, begins moving while there is still a bite of pain, stretching you until it hurts. 

You fuss slightly, because it’s overwhelming and you  _ want  _ to. You begin squirming slightly atop of Bucky to get away from Steve. You could handle it, you know you could, but you still want to be a brat. Not let him in so easily. There’s some lingering feelings all tangled up in you, a bittersweetness after the previous night and this morning. There’s still a long talk to be had and—

You whine his name and then gasp, “You’re being a brute.” 

You ease up to rest your hands on Bucky’s chest and look over your shoulder and pout at Steve, “I’ll make you watch first if you’re gonna be mean, Stevie.” You tell him with a flutter of lashes, a haughty little attitude that drives Steve right up the wall.

Maybe you do it purposefully. Maybe you like seeing him worked up.

“Oh, big girl thinks she’s calling the shots now, huh?” He says lowly, his blue eyes dark and glittering. 

Steve grabs your hips and pushes back into you to make you cry out, then. He gets all close, nose at the nape of your neck and guides your hips to move over him, to take him in and out in quick, rough thrusts. “You’ve gotten quite the attitude lately, honey.” He murmurs, grunting slightly then, overcome with you, “God, and you’re still so damn tight.” 

You squabble to hold onto Bucky, your brows pulled together and you kinda want to fight em, kinda want to squirm more and see if he’d force you down into Bucky’s arms  and just—

You moan, a soft, hiccuped little sound because you’re trying to contain it. 

“What are you gonna do, Stevie?” You whimper, trying to keep it together, “Punish me?” 

The sudden sharp pull of your hair makes you inhale fast and hot, makes you dig nails into Bucky’s chest, who hisses slightly. His hips, still clad in boxers, desperately rise against nothing, almost against your own hips, but Steve had pulled you to your knees above Bucky to be so demanding of you. 

“Maybe I should,” Steve says through his teeth, “Whad’ya think, Buck? Think she’d look good over my knees?” 

Bucky almost groans at the thought, at the way Steve is pushing into you. He cradles your cheek with a broad palm, brushes his thumb over your lips, “If she keeps running this pretty little mouth—“ And he pushes it past the seam of your lips, now actually groaning when you eagerly take it into the warmth of your mouth.

He loses his words as your moan around his thumb, as Steve takes you the way he wants. In rough, desperate strokes. But it’s all love, the messy kind, the deeper, darker and more possessive kind. Still fills you with heat and adoration, amorous twists of your heart. Bucky marks up the front of your neck, your chest, and Steve settles marks into the back of your shoulders. He makes you his, makes you burst apart in a dizzying climax, pulls out and spills onto your back where Bucky immediately makes more of a mess with wandering hands.

“Bucky’s aching something fierce, baby.” Steve murmurs then and you can feel more than see Steve taking hold of Bucky through his boxers, who hisses at the touch, desperately pushing into Steve’s hand. 

Your head collapses into the crook of Bucky’s neck. You’re already sore, hurting and throbbing from Steve, sticky and warm and exhausted from your fist peak. You nuzzle there, can feel when Bucky arches his hips up so Steve can strip him bare, return to fully grip Bucky and have him brokenly moan underneath you. 

You end up on your side, leg hitched high over Steve’s waist where he holds you open now, your head on his chest, in his neck, as Bucky spoons you. He takes you from the side in those languid, surprisingly gentle thrusts.

He works you up all over again, fills you until there’s the building ache and pressure in you. Steve strokes your thigh, tells you that you’re good and sweet and  _ his.  _

_ Theirs. _

He plays with the golden necklace between your breasts as Bucky ruts into you in slow glides. He tries to take away the ache, let’s you and Steve kiss and make up and murmur to each other. 

Bucky brings you to another peak, this one pulls you under its tide, down deep into the darkened depths of it.

 It makes you cry, glittering tears that Steve kisses away. It makes you grip them tight and desperate and fall deeper into them, your heart tumbling and twisting and dropping. You feel air-borne, plummeting.

And you fall into it like an angel falls from grace, burning and bright, like a comet, a broken star, and fall deeper in love with them.

***

_ The Daily Bugle  _ wants an interview with you; they have for weeks now and you finally have decided to indulge them. You can’t help the flutter of nerves as Wanda helps you get ready. She stands between your legs, finishing your makeup at the tall, ornate vanity in the bedroom.

“You’re awfully quiet.” She muses, dabbing your lips with red before she swipes at your bottom lip with her thumb.

Your eyes flicker up to her, lips parting. You shouldn’t, but a flash of heat pulses through you. Perhaps because Bucky and Steve are always parting your lips, and your cheeks flush at the thought. 

Wanda smiles, mischievous, as if she knows maybe where your thoughts have wandered to, “Cat got your tongue?” She hums and you blink.

“N-no.” You say, “Just nervous for the interview.” 

She brushes a strand of your hair behind your ear and you lean into the touch, “You’ll do wonderful. Just be yourself, everyone loves you.” She sighs, and you turn your lips to her wrist, playfully kiss her pulse there with smiling eyes. 

Thankful, glittering, and hopeful.

* * *

The reporter comes to interview you at the mansion, where you’ll host him in the parlor. You’re dressed in dazzling, rosy red. It’s soft and blushing, vibrant for summer but not so much as to hurt the eyes. It’s darling and daring, the gold necklace hanging proudly around your neck, paired with gleaming pearls. 

You greet him with warmth, allow him to take your photo on the settee with his large, heavy camera. You ask how you should pose, smile shyly at him in a way that already has his eyes softening on you. 

He suggests,  _ however you like! Whatever is most you!  _ With a smile and twinkling eyes. 

So you lean against the arm of it, cross your arms and let your head rest there, turning dreamy and soft eyes upward. Angelic and hazy, you gentle your features so you’re wistful and hopeful. 

A burst of light, a curl of smoke, and the picture is taken. 

You usher him to sit as well once his camera is away, offer him coffee you’d made and he accepts some. 

You sit across from him then and he begins, with his notebook on his lap, pencil in hand;

“You’ve grown awfully popular in the past few weeks, did you expect it?”

You shake your head with a slight laugh, “No, not at all! I was only looking for work as a singer! I was thankful I was even hired.” 

“But now you’re the It-Girl of New York. Everyone’s looking to you for fashion and trends. The talk of the town. Is it daunting?”

You draw in a slow breath, become aware that you haven’t even thought of it like that, that you’d been so preoccupied with the people in your life, with singing and performing and living, that you hadn’t paused to consider what the rest of the state thinks of you. 

“I suppose, if I think about it.” You begin lightly, “But I’m not living for them, just for myself, so I haven’t thought long on it.”

“Do you pay much attention to your critiques?” 

You blink, “I try not to. I’m very sensitive.” You say with a slight laugh and he can’t help but smile, too.

“Have you always been singing?” He then asks, steers the conversation into something more light hearted.

“Yes,” You respond with a smile, “I’ve always had music in me. And I think, recently, the worlds just made me want to sing.” 

He smiles at your earnestness, “Would you ever act?” 

“Sure.” You say with a responding smile.

“In those new films?” 

You shake your head, “No, in theater! I like New York, I like how alive the stage is.” 

“An ingénue, then!” He suggest and you laugh, which sounds like twinkling bells. 

He turns to fun questions, entertained and enthralled by you, “Your favorite color?”

“Gold, for now.”

“Favorite flower?” 

“Peonies! We’re having a bush of them placed in the back garden soon!” 

“Favorite food?”

“Desserts! I have a horrible sweet tooth.” 

“Do you have any pets? Would you like one?”

“I’d love a little, white kitten.” 

And the interview presses onward, until you’re feeling a little drained from speaking with someone, but thankful it went so well. You walk him out to the driveway when you’re finished and he kisses your hand goodbye, watch as his car ambles away and out of the tall, iron gates of the estate. 

A week later, the paper is printed, your photo on the cover and the words, written in bold above it;

**THE PRINCESS OF NEW YORK DAZZLES**

* * *

Steve and Bucky spend night upon night finally telling you and showing you the way the mob works, the way business goes. Natasha and Sam step in, too, guide you through it all carefully. 

They tell you about all they give back to the community; they take care of it, of everyone they can. They’re not out to hurt anyone who isn’t out to hurt them. Their job isn’t to frighten. What they’re doing is illegal, but it’s not without cause. It’s not  _ only  _ for money. You meet other mobsters loyal to them and they all regard you with respect.

A plan is devised; you will act naive still, you will act foolish to keep yourself safe, but you’ll know everything.

There’s an argument about self defense; if you should be taught it or not. 

Steve wishes you didn’t have to know it, but Natasha thinks it necessary. You  _ want  _ to know it. So she trains you when she can, uses your ballet training to teach you to be swift and strong and graceful.

It becomes increasingly important as you become bigger in New York, other mob bosses send you flowers as warnings to Steve and Bucky. You act foolish, gushing about how pretty they are, naive and innocent.

And finally, the biggest bouquet of roses you’ve ever seen is left backstage for you one night. They’re deeply red and white and fragrant, soft petals and their thorny undersides proudly on display. They take up an absurd, obnoxious amount of room. Nothing humble or simple about them, ridiculously elegant and large. A fragrant show of wealth. It’s almost silly. 

But the card reads, in sprawling, messy letters;

_ To the Princess of New York. I’d love to get a drink with you sometime. On me.  _

_ Humbly, _

_ Tony Stark _

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi to me on tumblr @until-we-fall-in-love

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi to me on tumblr @ until-we-fall-in-love


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